


(i broke my bones) playing games with you

by brawlite



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disordered Eating, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomnia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Self-Destruction, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, billy does not try and be a better person, everyone is just working on their own shit, he is in fact just Not Good, human disaster steve harrington, mentions of potential/theoretical suicide, some twisted guilty catholicism, steve is just trying to be a Person and it is not working out so well, to reiterate: not a nice ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-05-31 05:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15112475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Billy wants to crowd Harrington in close whenever he sees him, wants to dig his thumbs right into the bruises on his face.He wants to make Harrington to flinch like he used to.





	1. i think i'm gonna make it worse

**Author's Note:**

> -title (and chapter titles) from real by years and years (thanks, [lipgallagher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipgallagher/pseuds/lipgallagher))  
> -boy howdy these are some unhealthy coping mechanisms!!  
> -spoiler alert: not a good/kind/satisfactory/cheery ending
> 
> also: sorry

**Late August, 1986**

“What -- ?” Steve starts, hands stuck up in a gesture somewhere between defensive and offensive. He’s invariably a little jittery, a little skittish -- but always ready to fight. Billy likes that about him. He also hates it, too.

“Did I stutter?” Billy says. He bares his teeth and leans forward, but it’s hardly friendly, getting all up in Steve’s space like that.

Harrington looks confused. There’s maybe a little hurt blooming there in those big doe eyes, but the hallway is poorly lit and Billy doesn’t want to see, so he doesn’t.

“Well, did I?” Billy asks again, squaring his shoulders like he’s ready to fight, ready to throw a punch.

Like the good old days.

Like how Steve wanted him to be like, at the beginning of the summer.

“What, did you think we were _friends_?” Billy asks, words jagged and sharp in his mouth. He wants to cut his tongue on them, wants them to be pointed enough that they make Steve bleed, too. Billy laughs, cruel and mean. “Aw. Did you think we were something _more_?”

Billy watches Steve swallow, watches something go a little pale in his eyes. A little dead.

He opens his mouth to talk, to probably say something stupid, but Billy cuts him off before he can.

“I thought I _told_ _you_ to stop being such a little bitch.”

It’s the perfect thing thing to say.

Steve laughs, like he always does. Bitter and mean and a little unhinged. Billy hates the sound. He kind of loves it, too.

\--

**May, 1986**

“Can you pick me up from Will’s tonight?” Max asks, like she’d prefer _anything else,_ but is asking Billy anyway, which means she must _really_ want it.

The humidity in the air is already making her hair fluff out, creating volume where there wasn’t any before. One of those big summer storms is hanging in the atmosphere, hot and heavy. By mid-afternoon it’ll be pouring. It’ll still be bucketing by the evening, too, storm set to be raging all around them. Max has got her skateboard tucked under her arm like she’s planning on skating there, probably mostly just to get out of the house, to not have to ask anyone for a ride _there._

The threat of the storm’s gotta be real bad if Max wants a ride back.

Or maybe Neil’s just gotten more strict with her curfew.

Either way, it’s not _really_ Billy’s problem at all.

Billy’s camped out on the stoop, on his third cigarette of the day. He lights up and asks: “Doesn’t Harrington cart you little shits around?”

Max makes a face. “ _No_ ,” she says, slow, like he’s stupid. And Billy would be a little proud of her if it didn’t immediately piss him the hell off.

So, Billy’s cigarette smoke gets blown into her face.

“Yeah, well,” he says. “Last I saw, he was playing babysitter. What, he get bored? Did he finally grow a pair?”

Last summer, Harrington played _mom_ to all those kids. Before Billy had left for school, Steve had been constantly surrounded by the brats. Billy had expected to come back to that reality, too. Especially considering that Harrington wasn’t heading off to college. Considering that Harrington, for all that Billy had heard, didn’t have anything lined up at _all_.

“That was _last year_ , Billy,” Max says. “A lot changes in a year.”

And yeah, Billy guesses that it really does.

\--

Billy doesn’t actually _see_ Steve Harrington for three more days.

When he does, it’s only an accident, Billy spotting him in parking lot outside the general store. They’re both picking up cigarettes. Steve heading out with a pack in his hand, Billy heading in, hands empty.

Billy goes right up to him. Because he can, because he used to like the way he always made Steve stop in his tracks, the way he always made Steve startle. But, he doesn’t startle, now. He steps right up. Doesn’t even flinch when Billy reaches out, mean, and grabs his chin.

Neither of them bother with _hello_.

It's been ages. But in a place like Hawkins, time stands still.

“Where'd you get this beauty?” Billy asks, fingers steadying Steve's jaw, peering in at what looks like a day-old black eye.

Steve grins with all of his goddamn teeth, jaw flexing under Billy's fingers.

“Oh, this? Hit on someone I shouldn't have,” he says, easy, like it doesn't hurt. Like his cheek isn't aching with the weight of the bruise.

Billy knows what shiners feel like. Knows what giving them feels like, too, for what it's worth. Knows that the bruises hurt bone deep, that they throb.

And Steve's just smiling like it's any other Wednesday. He's not pulling away like he should; he just lets himself stay caught by Billy's fingers, even though Billy's not holding on quite as tightly as he'd like.

“Why?” Steve asks, with a grin that would rival one of Billy’s. “You think it's a good look on me?”

And the hell of it is that Billy _knows_ it's a good look on Steve. He’s always liked the look of Steve with a split lip, with bruising around his eyes. He's a goddamn work of art when his face is tender -- but Billy's fists didn't do this, and that makes it uglier. Makes it _wrong_.

“I _think_ ,” Billy says, all soft and smooth, like Steve's a bitch he's trying to sweet talk, like Steve's _dumb_ , “that you should really be more careful. After all, you wouldn't want anyone to fuck up this pretty face for good, now would you?”

Billy grips Steve's jaw a little harder before he lets go, pushing Steve's face to the side roughly, like he's been forgotten. Like he's not worth holding onto.

\--

It’s not like they were ever _friends_.

They played on the basketball team together in the winter while Billy secured a small scholarship, and then ran track together in the spring. Harrington hadn’t been in _any_ of Billy’s classes, too unmotivated, too stupid to keep up. Other than sports, shuttling the kids around, and the occasional party, Harrington and Billy just didn’t run in the same circles.

The summer before college, Billy had seen even _less_ of Harrington than before.

Billy never let himself think too much about it: college had been on the horizon, his big chance to get out, to get away from his house. Ignoring Harrington -- well, that had been an integral part of Billy’s plan. No distractions, no confusion, no fights. No _complications_. It had been easy, with such a firm goal in his mind.

It’s kind of hard to ignore Harrington now, with his bruises and his strange absence from all the kids’ lives. With his cocky grin and his unwillingness to step away from Billy’s implied threats.

Billy wants to crowd Harrington in close whenever he sees him, wants to dig his thumbs right into the bruises on his face.

He wants Harrington to flinch like he used to.

\--

“I’m just worried,” Billy hears Nancy Wheeler say. She’s got her face ducked close to Jonathan, closed off in their own little world on the porch.

Billy’s smoking outside the Byers house and leaning against his Camaro in the shadows, waiting for Max. Always waiting for Max.

It doesn’t suck as much as it used to. It gives him a reason to be out of the house, a reason to be in the good graces of Susan, which in turn takes a little of the pressure off from his father. It’s not like things have been _great_ since he’s gotten back for the summer, but they’re not shit, either, so.

Billy doesn’t hear what Jonathan says, because he’s not really paying attention, because he doesn’t really _care_ what these losers are worried about. He just wants Max to finish her shit and come outside so Billy can get her home by ten-thirty.

Which is _way later_ than Neil ever let Billy stay out when he was Max’s age, but whatever.

“-- don’t think he even _eats_ ,” Nancy says. “-- seen him? He’s so skinny, Jonathan.”

Billy’s pretty damn sure she’s talking about her little brother, because they’ve _all_ got some brat shadowing them around in life, everyone except for Harrington, but -- but suddenly, Jonathan says: “ _Steve’s just --_ ” and then Billy can’t _help_ but listen, can’t help but be all goddamn ears.

“Steve’s just going through a tough time,” Jonathan’s saying.

Nancy sighs, says something about how it’s been over a year, and yeah, alright, Billy thinks, Steve _should_ be over a stupid breakup by now. Melodramatic, much?

But there’s something nice about thinking about Steve Harrington being taken down a peg, reduced from his former glory of King of Hawkins High. There’s something richly satisfying about it, about the fact that Harrington is apparently so torn up that his prissy _ex_ is concerned about him.

And Billy _would_ hear more, but Max is pushing out of the house, screen door clattering closed behind her. Nancy and Jonathan clam up, Max waves a quick _goodnight_ at them, and then charges down the steps to where Billy’s waiting by his car.

It’s then that Nancy and Jonathan spot him. Nancy pales, her thin lips pressing into a frown: first time she’s noticed him, then. Jonathan, too, from the look of him.

“Evening Wheeler. Byers,” Billy says with a grin, nodding at each of them. Friendly as can be.

He throws his cigarette down and stomps it into the ground.

“Hargrove --” Nancy says from the porch, once Billy’s wrenched his door open. He’s keeping his movements slow, like he _wants_ her to say something. Giving her time.

“ _Wheeler_ ,” Billy says, leaning his weight across the top of his car door, voice sweet. Saccharine. “What can I do for you?”

“Billy,” Max says, from where she’s standing on the other side of the car. Her tone a little confused, a little cautionary. Like she knows Billy’s got bite.

Nancy’s lip curls up, her eyes harder than Billy’s ever really seen them. The girl’s got spunk, that’s for sure.

“Stay away from Steve,” she tells him, not even bothering to sugar-coat it.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Billy promises.

Not that he’s ever been all that _good_ at keeping promises.

Hell, they’re too _fun_ to break.

\--

Steve’s black eye is worse the next time they run into each other.

Billy’s waiting outside the arcade, leaning up against his Camaro, smoking. He _could_ be chatting up the broad standing by the doorway, but Billy’s tired and she’s not that hot, so he doesn’t really _care_.

Besides. He’s got company.

“Can I bum a smoke?” Steve says, moving in to occupy the space next to Billy.

Billy turns. Raises his eyebrow at Steve.

And _jesus_ does he look bad. Billy can’t help but grin at him, a sick sort of satisfaction spreading through his gut. Steve Harrington, pretty boy of Hawkins, looks _terrible_. His shiner looks worse, but maybe it’s just because Billy’s attention’s caught on the dark circles underneath Steve’s eyes, on the gaunt look on his face. He looks pale and he looks tired, like a zombie, barely upright on his own two feet.

“ _Suuure_ ,” Billy says, drawing the word out as he pulls out a cigarette for Steve.

He holds it out.

When Steve reaches for it, Billy snatches it back, tutting.

“Ah, ah. You gotta say _pretty please,_ ” Billy warns, leaning into Steve’s space a little, while keeping the cigarette out of his reach.

Billy expects Steve to bristle, to shy away.

Instead, Steve just grins, leaning forward into Billy’s space. A perfect mirror of Billy’s nonchalance, his sugary aggression.

“Pretty please,” Steve says. He drops his voice low and Billy kind of hates it, his gut twisting uncomfortably at the idea that Steve’s not backing down.

It raises the same anger, the same fire in him that it used to. That Steve’s _face_ and his mere _presence_ used to. It had been why Billy avoided him, to the best of his abilities, a year ago. He’d never been able to leave Steve Harrington alone, had never been one to not put his hand into the flames just to get burned.

Billy doesn’t _like_ the way Steve’s smiling back at him, but he _does_ like the way Steve looks kind of like death. So Billy pushes him, shoves at him right in the chest. Steve stumbles back, but he doesn’t shout, doesn’t even grunt. He just laughs, free and easy, like Billy maybe broke something inside of him that was holding that laugh inside.

It’s hard to say how much there is left to break inside Harrington, considering how _lightly_ Billy shoved him, all things considered. Billy thinks about the plate, about how hard Billy’s punched him before. About how easily Steve went down then, too, but only after it all. Billy doesn’t think it would take all that much to get Steve on the ground, now. Just a gentle breeze and a well-placed thought.

“Don’t be a bitch,” Billy says, and holds out the cigarette once Steve’s done laughing.

He lights it for Steve too.

Because Billy’s nice like that.

\--

“So, what,” Billy says, pushing past Steve into the Casa Harrington. “You don’t have a job, or whatever?”

“Nope,” Steve says, popping the sound of the word with his lips.

He closes the door behind Billy, like a good host, and doesn’t care that Billy’s got mud on his boots. Steve gestures at the back of the house, pointing Billy in through his living room, to the door that leads to the back yard. “The kids are all out back, by the pool.”

Billy’s like, a whole _two hours early_ to pick up Max. He doesn’t _care_ where the kids are.

He’s just bored out of his skull.

“Where’s your liquor cabinet?” Billy asks.

Steve raises his eyebrow. “Aren’t you driving?”

“In two hours,” Billy says. “Didn’t I tell you not to be a bitch?”

Steve rolls his eyes. The bruise on his face is fading a little, day by day. Not that Billy sees him daily, because Steve’s got a busy schedule doing -- something, apparently. Not working, that’s for sure. Not sleeping or eating either, clearly.

“Come on,” Steve says, nodding for Billy to follow him up the stairs.

Billy does. Because he’s curious, because he’s intrigued. Because Harrington looks dead on his feet and yet he’s _still_ entertaining kids that he now refuses to drive around -- and now he’s telling Billy to follow him upstairs.

So, Billy travels even deeper into Casa Harrington. He follows Steve into a room with an en-suite, which he presumes is Steve’s room, even though it lacks pretty much any touch of personalization at all. It’s just a place for someone to sleep. Or to not sleep, as the case with Steve seems to be, given the circles under his eyes.

Billy’s not all that surprised when Steve sits down at his desk and starts rolling a joint. Not that there would be any point in asking if Billy’s interested: of _course_ he’s interested.

Unwilling to sit in this strange space, Billy hovers. He pokes around, inserting himself into Steve’s space like he belongs.

“So, if you’re all about ignoring the kids these days,” Billy says, conversationally, “why are you throwing them a pool party?”

To be fair, Billy doesn’t think it’s a bad thing. It had been kind of weird seeing a high schooler with no siblings cart around a bunch of pre-teens because he, what, didn’t have any other friends? At least Harrington seems to be occupied doing other things, even if those things make him look like death.

“Yeah, well,” Steve says informatively.

He lights up first, takes a pull, and then passes it to Billy, who steps in close.

“Well?” Billy prompts, because there’s a story here and he’s curious.

It’s not like he’s got all that much going on this summer. And greedily, Billy’d like to know more about the King’s fall. About what made him topple to the ground with the rest of the common folk.

“There’s a party on Thursday. At Monica Cromby’s house -- she’s a junior at Bloomington. You should come,” Steve says, instead of actually answering him.

They pass the joint back and forth, Billy taking it from Steve’s shaking hands, each time bumping Steve’s fingers just because he can. They’re oddly calloused and rough for someone who doesn’t work. But then again, Steve seems oddly tired for someone who doesn’t _do_ anything with his time.

“I’ll think about it,” Billy says, knowing full well he’ll be there. Because Hawkins is small. Because he’ll take _anything_. And besides -- a college party is bound to be at least marginally better than a high school one. And he can at least count on Indiana kids going hard, because _everyone’s_ bored. Because everyone feels cooped up by the same nothingness around them.

Steve sighs, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling. He gets up and stands by the window, peering down at the back yard below, then out at the woods beyond. Billy can hear the kids shouting, the sound of them having fun in the pristine pool.

“I figured they’d stop bitching if I let them have a party,” Steve finally says. “Doesn’t matter if I’m _there_ , or, like, up here. They’ll leave me alone for a month or so.”

It’s nearly June, now. It sounds like this isn’t the first time Steve did something to appease the brats for the sake of some peace and quiet. Maybe when he opened up the pool he invited them in first, or something else equally insincere.

Billy can’t say that it’s a bad idea. He’s also a little impressed; he didn’t think Harrington had it in him to be so detached. Last year he seemed pretty damn far away from that.

But maybe Billy just wasn’t looking close enough.

Billy moves in, leaning up against the other side of the window, just a couple feet away from Steve. His limbs feel loose, his muscles relaxed. There’s a pleasant buzz in the back of his head that makes this whole thing something close to tolerable.

“So, is this where all of your money is going?” Billy asks, as he passes the joint back.

Steve laughs, all teeth. His eyes still look so tired as he takes a pull. “Something like that.” He finishes off the joint and stubs it out. “So, you gonna come? To the party?”

Billy reaches out and pats the too-angular side of Steve’s face, somewhere between patronizing and too rough. There’s stubble on his warm skin and Billy’s fingertips graze it. Steve’s adam’s apple bobs and his eyes half close, even though Billy’s touching him too hard, each pat bordering on a slap.

“We’re not friends, pretty boy. If I come, it’s definitely not to see _you_.”

\--

Indiana is dripping heat this summer.

The air is thick with it, muggy and dreadful. Billy can barely breathe, barely do anything other than lie on his bed in almost nothing, staring up a the ceiling, hoping for the cool relief of darkness.

During the days, though, the Hargrove house is quiet; Billy’s the only one who haunts its interior. It kind of makes up for the heat.

\--

When Billy gets to the party, it’s already raging. People already spilling out of the place at the seams, littering the front yard and presumably the back, too.

He doesn’t look for Harrington. He figures he’ll find the guy at some point, especially since he’d been so goddamn _keen_ on Billy being here, for whatever reason.

Billy doesn’t know any of these people, but that doesn’t stop him. He’s a pro at floating by on charm and a winning smile. Both of those get him the good stuff, leaving him already a little buzzed only a half an hour in after charming the shit out of _Monica Cromby_ , who isn’t hot enough for Billy to waste much time with, but who was only too _happy_ to show Billy where her father’s expensive liquor was stored, as long as he _promised_ not to tell anyone.

 _Of course, baby_ , he had said. And the truth of it was that Billy didn’t plan on telling anyone about it, but only so he’d have something to come back to, later.

It’s only a few minutes later that Billy finds Steve.

Billy almost walks past him, at first. But then again, Billy _always_ makes it a point to check out who’s getting hot and heavy in the various corners of parties, just because he’s curious. Because maybe he likes to watch, sometimes.

Some guy who’s too skinny, with broad enough shoulders, has got some blonde pressed up against the wall, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. Her skirt’s riding up. His jeans are undone.

It’s definitely Steve. Billy knows his shape too well, knows the way his muscles move underneath his shirt, knows the definitive curve of his spine.

Being in the middle of a party, hallway aside, doesn’t seem to stop either of them. Billy can watch the way his hips thrust, can catch glimpses of Steve’s cock sliding into her, easy and fast. Steve’s not looking at her as he goes at it, head tilted to the side. It’s not hard to catch his eyes, to watch Steve watching him as he fucks into some chick that Billy doesn’t even know.

Billy stands there too long, unblinking. Frozen. Eyes caught on Steve's. Eventually, Steve’s pace falters and he groans, low and stilted, his eyes fluttering closed, finally braking contact. The sound of him, even through the party's noise, goes straight to Billy’s gut.

With that, Billy walks away to find something more interesting.

Namely, something more to drink, something to cool the heat on his tongue, something to drown out the sounds of everything around him. And maybe, a little bit, to numb the fact that no one here’s even worth Billy’s time.

The past year has made Billy pickier. Pickier in who he fights, pickier in who he fucks. Maybe it’s just that he’s away now, free from the stifling environment of his house, or maybe he’s just honed his tastes a little more. Maybe it’s that Billy’s no longer cooped up in small town Hawkins, too; he’s got the whole population of his university and the surrounding city to choose from. Even if it’s still in Indiana, it’s still _better_. Anything’s better for getting his dick wet than Hawkins, truthfully.

It’d be hell to be stuck here again.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t flirt shamelessly, can’t dance, can’t drink until his head spins. Until he’s warm as hell and stripping off his shirt, just because he can.

There’s a whole crew of people here Billy doesn’t know but he’s drinking with anyway. Former top dogs of Hawkins High mingling with the current royalty and some of the rest of the fortunate populace -- there’s no Steve Harrington in sight, not since Billy spotted him early on in the party, buried between some girl’s thighs. Time was, Steve would’ve been vying for their attention, too. Or so Billy had heard.

It’s kind of _sad_ , Billy thinks, just how far Steve has fallen.

It’s kind of _sad_ he wasn’t here to witness it.

Feeling a little caged and way too hot, Billy eventually pushes out the screen door of the kitchen, to the side of the house where it’s quiet.

Well, _mostly_ quiet. Aside from the sound of someone emptying their guts into the flowerbed to his left.

Billy doesn’t even need to _look_ to know that it’s Harrington. It’s like he’s got some sixth goddamn sense for the guy. Or maybe he’d just been hoping for something a little less boring and usually Harrington qualifies for that, in some form or fashion.

He doesn’t even think before squatting down next to Steve’s kneeling form.

“Looking good, King Steve. Green’s a real good color on you.”

He’s not even green though _,_ Billy thinks. He’s almost white as a sheet -- at least from what Billy can see in the shitty garden lights.

“Screw off,” Steve says, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

Billy can’t help but grin.

“What, not a fan of the punch?” Billy asks.

Steve’s hair is flatter than usual, greasy and stringy. It looks _limp_ , just like the rest of him. Barely struggling to stand.

That doesn’t stop Steve from going for him, though, more spite left in him than Billy thought. But as Steve moves for him, he over-calculates, knocked off-balance by the weight of the alcohol in his own system, and just falls sideways and onto his ass. He eats dirt and Billy cackles, delighted.

“ _King Steve,_ everyone!” Billy says, but he doesn’t shout it like he should. Doesn’t want to share this moment with anyone else, not really.

It’s just for him.

Steve groans and pushes himself up, but his arms are wobbly. He gags, again, but nothing comes out.

“Look at me, baby,” Billy says, all sweet, just so he can get a good look at those doe eyes.

He takes Steve’s chin in his fingers like before and tilts his face, _helping_. Steve looks up then, rewarding him, meeting Billy’s eyes because there’s nowhere else to look. Billy can’t tell if it’s just the darkness, or if Steve’s eyes are mostly pupil. They’ve gone dark, like he’s _up_ , like he’s ready for a fight, even if his body isn’t. “You look _wrecked.”_

It’s a beautiful sight. Now Billy kinda _gets_ what all those assholes in art history were on about in all those paintings of dying men on the battlefield.

“Feel wrecked,” Steve croaks.

He reaches out and gets a hand on Billy’s shoulders, leaning on him. Heavy and nearly dead weight. There’s not a hint of aggression in the gesture, despite Steve’s earlier movements.

Like Steve just _forgot_ that they’re not _friends_. That they’re not exactly chummy.

Like he thinks that Billy might take pity on him, might take care of him.

It’s _funny_.

“Where’s that chick I saw you with?” Billy asks, not bothering to hide the fact that he saw Steve. That he watched them. They both know that he did. Besides -- Steve’s drunk enough that Billy doubts he’ll remember any part of this tomorrow. “Or were you so pathetic that even a lonely Hawkins cow won’t take care of you?”

“Donno,” Steve says. To either, to both. Billy’s got no idea, but he _does_ know that Steve’s pathetic, and women don’t have _unlimited_ patience, so.

Steve’s fingers tighten on Billy’s shoulder, rough against bare skin, nearly scalding. Billy nearly jolts with it. And _right_ , yeah -- he ditched his shirt a while ago, tucked it into his back pocket, letting it trail around after him as he moved around the party, uncaring. He’s still too warm now, with Steve’s hand on him.

Billy wants to shove him, wants to watch Steve’s back hit the ground with a vicious thump. Wants to knock the breath right out of him.

“Where _are_ we?” Steve asks, before Billy can bridge the gap between them.

“Your dreams, baby,” Billy says.

Steve looks around them, blinking into the low light of the yard, of the space around them. Boring ass modern suburbia, Billy thinks. He wonders what Steve sees that makes his eyes go wide, what he sees that makes him lean, drunkenly, closer to Billy, wobbling to try and get back up on his knees.

Billy wants to lean forward, wants to allow Steve to fall into him. Wants to close his arms around Steve and squeeze until Steve fights him back again. Until Steve chokes out that he _can’t breathe_.

“ _Pretty sure_ I’m not dreaming,” Steve says with a crooked smile. Vacillating between hot and cold. With-it and not.

His hair is all askew. It would be so easy for Billy to just reach forward, to tug it back into place with his fingers. Restoring the crusty, oily mess to something resembling its former glory. Steve _probably_ wouldn’t even notice, he’s so out of it. He _probably_ wouldn’t remember.

Billy would, though. He’s not _that_ drunk.

“What, you don’t dream about me, pretty boy?” Billy asks.

Steve wobbles. He hiccups. And then groans.

“I dream about worse things than you, Hargrove,” Steve says.

This time he does tip forward, cheek falling hard against the hard line of Billy’s collarbone. His hair brushes against Billy’s nose; he smells like helplessness, like sleepless nights, like sweat and vomit and cheap beer.

“That sounds an awful lot like a challenge.”

And it is -- isn’t it?


	2. tell me what it is you want

**June, 1986**

When Harrington bums a cigarette from Billy a few days later, he doesn’t mention the party, doesn’t mention passing out in Billy’s arms.

He doesn’t mention waking up on the back patio of his own house, dumped unceremoniously onto one of the pool loungers, because he certainly didn’t walk himself there. He didn’t really help himself into Billy’s car, either. Billy had to do that all by himself.

Steve doesn't mention any of it. Just sticks his hand into Billy’s shirt pocket, fishes out his pack, and helps himself to one without a word. Good thing he brought his own lighter, though -- because Steve would be getting himself punched going for the one in Billy’s back pocket.

Good thing, that.

\--

It’s not that Billy’s _looking_ for Steve. It’s just that he keeps finding him in places. Parties, mostly. But at some of the shittier bars, too, the ones on the outskirts of town that don’t card.

It’s the third time in about a week that Billy’s run into him and not the first that Steve’s found himself in some trouble, judging by the bruising on his face that was already fading by Wednesday.

But Billy’s walking into the bar by the time the trouble’s already started, and that’s just not _fair._

Some biker guy has got Steve by the collar, and is lifting him off the ground. Like _actually_. By a good foot or two. Like Steve weighs nothing. Which -- to be fair -- is probably true; Harrington’s been dropping weight like it’s his job.

Billy remembers, when he first moved to Hawkins, everyone called the little Byers kid _Zombie Boy_. The nickname is definitely more fit for King Steve, these days, with the way he's looking. 

But just because Harrington’s a lightweight and an idiot doesn’t mean that just _anyone_ can lift him off the ground and toss him around like that. That’s kinda just _Billy’s_ job. It’s Billy’s dream, really. It’s a privilege, not a right.

So.

Billy’s got bloody knuckles by the time he’s done and Harrington’s alongside him, sneering and snarling through a bloody nose. They’re thrown out, because of course they are. Because Billy fights dirty and rough and like it’s for his life, every goddamn time, and people don’t seem to _like_ that much, so. Because Steve just keeps egging people on, picking  _more_ fights.

They’re thrown out, left in the empty quiet of the parking lot with pavement that crumbles into the woods, into more of the nothingness around them.

And then Billy’s shoving Harrington toward the passenger door of his car before he can think better of it.

It’s not like he _really_ wants to get blood all over the inside of his baby, but.

But.

Harrington’s still laughing and he looks _mean_. He fights brutal, like a stray dog for its life. He even tongues at his upper lip, lapping up still clotting blood like he's hungry for it. Billy can almost taste the iron on his own tongue.

“Why’d he punch you?” Billy asks, once they’re speeding off in a direction, eating up asphalt and miles beneath the wheels.

By now, Harrington’s laughter has died down, but Billy doesn’t need to look over to know that he’s still smiling wide. Still buzzed and awake in Billy’s car -- a stark difference to last time he was in here, unconscious and smelling like vomit and sex.

Then again, that apparently wasn’t the first time he’d been unconscious in Billy’s car, from what Billy had heard.

“Because I wanted him to,” Steve says.

“Yeah?” Billy asks, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “And so you just asked him _real nice_?”

“I even said pretty please.”

Billy barks out a laugh.

“No really, how’d you do it?”

Because Billy’s picked too many fights to count and he can’t help but be curious as to how Harrington does it. How Harrington gets a stranger to haul him off the ground with so much righteous fury.

When Billy looks over at him, quick, Steve’s grinning like a hyena. A little deranged and definitely wild.

“I asked if he wanted me to suck his cock. Told him he should stop looking and do something about it.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Billy says, sucking in a breath. No wonder the guy threw punches. No wonder he went right for the throat.

No wonder.

“Pretty good, right?” Steve says.

When Billy looks over at him, Steve’s looking back, grinning a little different than before. He looks reckless again, blood drying on his face, his eyes bright with pride and with pain.

“Yeah,” Billy says. “Pretty fucking good.”

\--

Billy promises to attend the next house party Steve invites him to.

Steve doesn’t even show.

\--

“Can you drive me to the mall?” Max asks, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen.

Neil’s got Billy painting cabinets because Susan wanted her kitchen to be pretty in pink. Now, Billy wants to break every freshly-painted bubblegum cabinet with his fists. He’s on the third coat now, because he _knows_ what a job well done looks like and he _knows_ to not half-ass things when it comes to Neil. Susan probably wouldn’t even give a shit if there were only two coats. Hell, the second she sees this place she’ll probably think better of it and want it white.

“Does it look like I’m not doing anything, Maxine?”

“Um.”

“Does it _look_ like I’ve got a shit pile of spare time on my hands?”

“Um. No?”

Billy snarls, baring his teeth as he puts the paintbrush down. _Sure_ he could totally stop now. The kitchen looks _damn great_ if he’s honest. But he kind of figured that if he was still painting by the time Neil came home in the next hour or so, Billy’d be cleared for a few days. Set in Neil’s good graces.

Then again. Carting Max around always seems to make Neil happy too. Like he can pretend that his kids are close, like they’re _getting along._

And if Billy's watching out for Max, Neil knows he won't have to, that lazy asshole.

Whatever. The paint fumes are starting to give him a headache, anyway.

He makes Max help him clean up, because this is her house too. Because Neil has probably already taught her that she’s going to have to cook and clean in her future. Right after he stops babying her, or whatever. And Max, fiery little bitch that she is, isn't going to enjoy that change much.

They’re halfway to the mall before Max asks him to make a detour.

To Harrington’s house.

“The fuck?” Billy says. “I thought you shitheads didn’t need a babysitter anymore.”

He keeps driving. Away from King Steve’s giant mansion.

“We don’t,” Max says. She stays quiet until it’s clear that Billy isn’t turning the car around until she gives him a better answer. “Look, he wanted space, clearly, so we were giving it to him. But he’s not answering our calls and no one’s seen him in a couple days. So we wanted to check on him.”

She doesn't mention Nancy and Jonathan, too, but Billy’s got his suspicions.

It's not hard to connect the dots. “You drew the short straw, huh?” Billy asks.

She’s quiet for a moment, then she nods. “Yeah.”

Harrington’s house looks dark when they arrive. The BMW sits in the driveway at the same angle it did two days ago when Billy had happened to drive past on his way to the grocery store.

For a moment, as he’s pulling the Camaro into the driveway behind Steve’s car, Billy entertains the idle thought that maybe Harrington’s dead. That he hit his head in the shower. That he drank too much and then fell asleep and choked in it. That, maybe, he even offed himself.

The glaring possibility of any of it is definitely more likely than just an idle thought. But that would be _boring_. It’s not the fall from glory that Billy wanted from Steve.

None of it is, really, if Billy's being honest.

As much as Billy had delighted in the idea of Steve falling, in of his golden days ending in a toxic blaze -- the whole thing’s not quite as satisfying as Billy imagined. It’s all pretty anticlimactic.

And Billy hasn’t even gotten to play a real part in it, yet. It all started without him here.

He tells Max to wait in the car. Sure, he’s a shitty brother, but even bratty kids don’t deserve to see a dead body all up close and personal.

Harrington’s door is unlocked when Billy tries it, so he just lets himself in.

The house is just as dark inside as it had looked from the outside. And yeah, Billy could turn on the lights, but he doesn’t know where the switches are and _he_ also doesn’t need to see a dead body in all its glory, either. Just because he’s an adult doesn’t mean he’s exempt from that kind of thing.

That turns out not to be a problem.

He finds Steve in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the darkness.

It should be more surprising than it is.

Steve is motionless, but Billy doesn’t think he’s necessarily asleep. He wouldn’t be so rigid, so statuesque if he was. There’s a certain kind of alertness, a certain kind of panic that drives people to sitting up with perfect posture like that, like a predator waiting to strike.

Like Steve was waiting for someone like Billy to just walk right in.

There's still some late afternoon light filtering in from outside. It's just enough light for Billy to see, once his eyes adjust.

Billy spots it before he even truly registers it: _the bat_. The one from that night at the Byers, the one with all the nails. The one Max nearly took his balls off with.

For whatever reason, it’s sitting at Harrington’s feet. And when Billy’s eyes truly adjust to the low light of the room, he can see Steve’s fingers tightening and loosening around the base of it. Like he’s reminding himself that it’s right there. Safe and sound. Like maybe he’s reminding Billy, too.

But he doesn’t swing, doesn’t even stand.

Just says, “Hargrove.”

“Hey King Steve,” Billy says, sugary sweet. And fuck if this whole situation isn’t weird as hell.

“What are you doing here?”

Not _how did you get in_ \-- which means that Steve left the door unlocked purposefully. Like he was inviting any old predator in.

“Figured I’d check up on my favorite royalty,” Billy says, taking a step closer.

When Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch and doesn’t raise that bat of his, Billy crouches down in front of him.

Even in the darkness, his eyes are all black, pupils blown to hell.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Billy asks, curious.

“Donno,” Steve says. “What day is today?”

He’s unmoored, untethered. Billy would be too, lacking any sort of routine like that, but he doubts that’s Steve’s problem. Not with the way he’s nearly vibrating straight out of his skin. Not with the way he’s not sleeping, not eating.

Billy peers in closer. Looks into those too-black eyes.

And -- oh. “King Steve, are you _high_?” Delighted.

He doesn’t mean weed, for once. Though it probably would do Harrington some good right now.

And honestly, it’s ludicrous that it took Billy this long to notice. How many times has he seen Steve like this, pupils blown, body so tight, so keyed-up he looks like a bow pulled taut? Too many to count.

Steve _always_ looks like this now, to some extent. Always looks like a shadow of his former self.

It's just that Steve's too much of a perfect princess for Billy to even consider that. Or so Billy thought, anyway.

And Steve just laughs. The only answer Billy really needs. The sound of it is sharp and brassy in the darkness of the room, bright like neon, out of place.

“Why, do you _want some_?” Steve asks.

“Max is _right_ outside,” Billy says.

If she’s not bored and already making her way inside. Which would probably be bad. Billy hopes she’s not.

But, if Max _wasn’t_ outside? -- well, Billy’s always been real bad at leaving Harrington alone. Even if he doesn’t know _exactly_ what’s on the table, it’s probably something expensive. And if it’s expensive and offered to Billy for free? Well, Billy Hargrove knows when to take advantage.

“Why, do you think she wants some too?” Steve says. Then, he laughs. A little stupid. Maybe a lot. “No, wait, she’s way too young for that kind of shit." He pauses. "Right?”

Like he barely remembers how old Max is.

Billy should probably ask what he’s on. Should probably ask how much he’s taken.

Hell, he should probably ask how long Steve’s been sitting in the middle of his living room floor with the lights off. With a baseball bat full of nails as his only companion.

But he doesn’t. He just grabs Steve's shoulder, digs his fingertips in hard enough to bruise, and tells Steve that he’ll be back in a couple hours. Then, he lets go.

He tells Max that Steve’s fine. That he’s just being a little bitch and ignoring her and her little friends and having a party of his own. She sneers and looks out the window. Then, she tells him to drive faster.

Maybe she’s not the worst after all.

\--

When Billy comes back, Steve’s still high. Or rather, he’s probably high _again_.

Everything is still dark. Usually, Harrington leaves all his lights on. Every single one in the house. Must be a special occasion Billy got himself invited to.

Billy has to push his way through the house and then has to haul his ass out to the backyard to even _find_ Steve in the first place, but it’s worth it, in the end.

Steve’s got himself sprawled out in one of the loungers, shirt off and swim shorts on. The night air is warm, still humid and heavy with the heat of the day and it’s got Billy feeling a little muggy, too.

“I twisted my ankle,” Steve says. Like Billy even _asked_.

“So you're throwing yourself a party?” Billy asks, hovering over Steve's lounger. Looming.

The lights of the pool are on. It's the only thing illuminating the back yard, the night fully closed in around them. Steve looks washed out and unreal. Out of focus.

“Be a good host and offer me the good stuff,” Billy says.

It's not the first time he's done coke, but it's definitely the _best_ coke he's done so far. And hell, it's probably the best he'll ever have. Unless he sticks around Steve Harrington for a while, which. Well. Billy doesn't think much about that. Doesn’t want to dwell. The thought just makes him itchy.

Steve laughs with him when Billy comes back up from his hit. As Billy pulls away from the glass coffee table, still sniffing, Steve is right there in his face. He’s wrapping an arm around Billy’s shoulders, probably like he used to with Tommy because Tommy does that too in mirror image. Like that, he pulls Billy away and towards wherever Steve wants him.

Billy figures he can allow that, for a little while, anyway.

They’re not friends, not even close. But Steve has got drugs and doesn’t have anyone to share them with, so.

Billy lets him pretend, just for the night.

Steve repays him in numbness, in fire, in euphoria.

\--

Steve's almost never at home at night.

When Billy drives past the next night, hoping maybe to score, all the lights are on at Casa Harrington, but Steve's car is gone.

\--

Steve and Nancy are arguing outside the general store when Billy goes to pick up a new pack of cigarettes.

The lot is pretty much empty. It’s just Steve’s expensive BMW, the Wheeler family car, and Billy’s Camaro. The employees park out back, apparently, so it gives the nice little impression that they’re all alone.

Nancy’s eyes snap to Billy when he slams his car door shut, but Steve doesn’t even flinch. He looks like he’s barely keeping himself upright and Nancy looks like she’s about ready to shake him, which would be a pity, because there’s not much of Steve left to hold onto. Not much to shake free.

“Wheeler,” Billy says, nodding at her.

She scowls.

 _Stay away from Steve_ , she had told him, at the beginning of the summer.

Billy’s not doing such a great job of that.

“Hey _King Steve_ ,” Billy says.

He drapes an arm over Steve’s shoulders and feels Steve sag against the weight. Billy wonders, idly, if he’ll maybe just fall down.

“We were in the middle of something,” Nancy says.

“By all means,” Harrington says, because he’s kind of a little bitch. But as long as he’s not being a bitch at _Billy_ , and instead being a bitch at _Nancy_ , Billy doesn’t really _care_. “What’s up?”

Nancy makes an annoyed noise and puts her hands on her hips.

She’s got a lot of spunk. Harrington probably liked that about her. Billy kind of appreciates it, too. Even when it’s directed at him. It’s the friction, the energy of it. The kind of thing that most girls won’t even try, when it comes to Billy. Maybe they just know better. They know danger when they see it wearing a jean jacket and smiling the way he does, all teeth, all fake.

But Nancy Wheeler isn’t dumb. It just means she’s scared of other, bigger and badder things than Billy Hargrove. Which is -- something.

Billy’s not sure what that is, other than _not his problem_.

“Not much,” Billy says, arm still slung over Harrington’s shoulder like they’re _buddies_. “Was thinking about heading out to the quarry later. Hear it’s gonna be a real scorcher.”

He hadn’t been planning on that at all, but whatever. It's something to say. It’s not like he’s got any real plans. Not like he actually _cares_.

Steve scoffs. “The quarry’s for losers,” he says. Like he knows better. Like he’s some authority on _cool_ , and not some self-destructive loser who gets high with the guy who bashed his face in a little over a year ago.

His tone makes Billy go a little hot under the collar, even though the heat of the day hasn’t even begun to creep into the air.

“Yeah?” Billy says. He tugs his arm a bit, hauling Steve closer to him. “You planning on offering up a better idea for me? I’m all ears, pretty boy.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Nancy says, like it means something. Like she’s trying to wedge her way in between them with a single word.

Maybe she could -- a year or two ago.

“ _Nance_ ,” Harrington says.

He feels so fragile underneath Billy’s arm. So thin, so delicate -- but with bite. So much like his ex-girlfriend, still so full of spite and fire, but with porcelain bones.

Nancy makes another frustrated noise, like she expected better of Steve. Like she expected better of _Billy_. Which is just _hilarious_ , really.

It also does absolutely nothing to stop Steve, little bitch that he is.

For once, Billy’s not gonna complain about _that_.

“There’s a swimming hole down by Sugar Creek. It’s kind of a pain to get to, but it’s pretty cool. Secluded, you know? Seems like the kinda thing you’d like.”

There’s something challenging in Steve’s tone, but something cautious, too. Like he’s asking Billy to come with him, to allow Steve to show him something of his own. Like he wants Billy to know _all_ of his secrets, spread out for him on a silver platter.

“Alright,” Billy says, knowing he’s won and feeling hungry, too. “But I’m driving.”

\--

“Why do you still give that bitch the time of day?” Billy asks, a little loud, a little mean.

He’s leaning up against a rock, body half-submerged in the crystal clear waters of Sugar Creek. With his chest spread out against the smooth, sun-warmed rock and his legs kicking idly in the cool water, he feels perfect. Like he hasn’t got a care in the world.

“Donno,” Steve says.

He’s climbing up to the top of the bank and Billy’s watching him go, tracking his progress lazily through half-shut eyes. They’re both naked to the wilderness and the waters, unashamed and unconcerned as they’ve got the place to themselves so far.

“Small town, I guess,” Steve says, before he jumps off the bank and into the water below.

Billy hoots as Steve’s body sends a splash ricocheting around them, clear waters broken by the jump, obscured by the ripples and waves as Steve comes back up for air. He’s too skinny, too worn-thin by his own devising, but the way the dappled light hits his skin today is flattering. He looks more alive as he pushes wet hair from his face, more tangible than ever before.

The waters here are deeper than Billy imagined them. And Steve had been right: the trek, as annoying as it had been, was definitely _worth it_.

There’s something about having the place to themselves, shrouded by a strand of trees, shaded and enclosed like this space was made just for them. Like the world has just stopped existing around this moment, like everything else has slowed to a grinding halt.

Billy hadn’t _planned_ on swimming today, hadn’t cared that it was going to be hot as balls outside, but he’s glad he made up the lie.

It’s a little strange, seeing Steve without his now-constant shroud of chemicals. But he’s not _quite_ without, because he’s still been steadily smoking Billy’s cigarettes on the bank whenever he gets a chance. And Billy, as relaxed and carefree as the water’s embrace has made him, just can’t bring himself to fucking _care_ about that like he should.

Besides, he knows Steve’s good for it. He’ll pay Billy back in one way or another.

“So, what,” Billy says, as Steve pushes himself to the opposite side of Billy’s rock, leaning on his arms with his chin. “Because you live in a small town you’re obligated to forgive and forget? I thought I told you to stop being a little bitch, King Steve.”

It’s nice to hear Steve laugh, his shoulders gone loose while his eyes stay mean. The sound is acidic and vicious out of his mouth and Billy loves it, loves the tone, loves the way it plays back in his head. Over and over, like something he’ll never forget.

“I don’t expect you to get it, Hargrove. You’re not from here. There’s _shit_ ,” Steve says, emphasis on the word like it has _hidden depths,_ or something, “that you’ll just never get.”

Billy hums.

“So, you think you’re some kind of corn-fed, farm-raised special?” he asks. “I hate to break it to you, Harrington, but while you _are_ special, sitting pretty in that mansion of yours with nothing but air between your ears, you’re just not _that kind_ of special. You’re _different_ than all these hicks. You’ll never fit in.”

And it’s kinda funny that he thinks he _does_ fit in.

Harrington doesn’t flinch like Billy would like him to, but his eyes do go a little hard. His mouth twitches up at the side in something like a smirk.

“And _you_ think you’re special ‘cause you’re from California,” Steve says. “But -- why didn’t you go back there, huh? Why’re you _still_ stuck in this shit hole like the rest of us trash?”

They aren’t questions, Billy thinks. They’re _requests_. For Billy to start throwing punches. Polite ones, even.

It’s almost admirable. It’s a little addictive, too.

Billy feels the grin spreading across his face, teeth wide, blood starting to heat up in his veins.

“Turns out, not all of our parents shove cash at us just to keep us quiet and out of the way. _Some_ of us gotta save up for the shit we want.”

But Billy’s not in the _mood_ to throw punches. Not when he’s got Harrington here all to himself like this. No, Billy wants to _savor_ this, wants to keep Steve’s ire simmering for hours. A tap, just for Billy to help himself to whenever he starts feeling a little thirsty.

Steve grunts.

Billy pushes himself up on the rock. Gets all up close and personal to Steve’s face.

“Not all of us have parents who fund their precious children’s expensive drug habits,” Billy says with a grin.

Steve shoves him at his shoulders and Billy falls backwards off the rock, splashing back into the cool water. His sun-warmed skin is soaked in it and his hair gets dunked, too. When he comes back up for air, he’s grinning, tossing his head until his hair is out of his face, until he’s blinking back the water that’s clinging to his eyelashes as he treads water, unanchored and delighted.

Steve doesn’t even look angry when Billy’s eyes fall on him. Just pleased with himself.

“Are you really going to complain about free drugs?” Steve asks, after a beat of silence.

“No,” Billy says, licking the water from his lips. “Not if you’re offering more.”

Steve rests his chin on his forearms again and tilts his head to the side, a little contemplative. A little fucking _bratty_. “Okay, but what would I be getting out of this arrangement?”

Like Billy’s got anything to offer him at all.

But there’s a tone there, something bordering on suggestive hidden in those depths, something laced with honey and fire, that makes Billy bristle. Like they’re friends. Or, if he twists it a little bit in his head, if he mulls on it some, like they’re _something more_.

Like Steve’s _asking for it._ Like a punch to the face.

Offering it.

It’s a tone that Billy immediately ignores.

“You get the pleasure of my fucking company,” he says all silky smooth, like he didn’t notice the tone or the words. Like Steve’s smirk isn’t making Billy’s gut twist uncomfortably.

He looks at Steve, like he’s challenging him. Like he’s fucking _daring_ him to say something.

Steve doesn’t. But he does grin. And he does push himself off the rock and back out of the water again, to climb the bank and jump back in.

Like nothing even happened at all.

\--

After that, Billy’s thoughts go a little more venomous where Harrington’s concerned. He doesn't really let himself think about why.

\--

Steve’s in the woods by Lover’s Lake at dusk.

Billy didn’t exactly have a reason to be there, other than sheer boredom. And he figured, why not smoke in the woods near to where a bunch of people where getting hot and heavy in their cars. They were _much_ easier targets than him, that way. Last year, he’d had enough encounters with the police to last him a good long while.

So, he’s not exactly expecting company.

Billy isn’t the one who startles Steve -- it’s the other way around.

It’s fair, though. Because Billy’s high and relaxed when Steve finds him, the scent of pot clinging to the air around him. It’s probably what gave him away.

Still, Billy thinks, the kids in the cars are better targets for bored cops than one kid getting high alone in the woods.

“King Steve,” Billy drawls out.

It feels a little bit like a dream, Steve standing in front of where Billy’s sitting up against a tree trunk, that goddamn _bat_ swinging at his side. Billy eyes it for a little while, all those nails and all that potential, before he drags his eyes up and up and up, finally looking at that fuckin’ face Steve’s got, the one with all the angles and the shadows and the fear.

It’s all there right where Billy left it, underneath a light sheen of mottled bruising.

And that’s Billy’s _favorite_ look on Steve.

 _Jesus_.

Maybe this _is_ a dream.

Maybe Billy just smoked a little too much.

“Hargrove,” Steve says, voice tight. “What are you doing out here? The woods aren’t safe.”

He doesn’t add _at night_ like Billy might’ve expected. Which Billy might’ve _argued_ with, because it’s not night, not yet. The air is still a little violet with the dusk, a little washed out and unreal, just like Steve.

“What’s it look like I’m doing, pretty boy?”

“It looks like you’re being an idiot.”

Which is  _weird_ , because _Steve’s_ the only idiot here.

“C’mere,” Billy says, gesturing to the space right in front of him. Between Billy’s spread legs. At the leaves and twigs decaying on the ground.

And just to prove he’s an idiot, Steve kneels down into the space between Billy’s knees. He even puts the bat down. Gives himself up. Like _Billy’s_ gonna protect him from whatever he’s scared of.

Which is just _hilarious_. Billy never knew what a funny guy Harrington was until this summer.

While Steve’s just staring, confused and a little annoyed, Billy reaches out, bridges the distance between them, slotting his thumb against one of those bruises on Steve’s face. It looks like it hurts, like it’s halfway to healing. Entranced, Billy digs his thumb in.

He expects Steve to flinch backward, to pull away from the pain.

But he doesn’t yield. Doesn’t give in. He _plants his goddamn feet_. Meta-fucking-phorically.

Billy grins, answering satisfaction blooming in his chest like fireworks, like fluttering moths aflame.

“Someone got you real good, didn’t they?”

Up close, the damage is worse.

The best part, the _gorgeous_ part of it, is that Billy knows that Steve asked someone for this, in his own delightful way. He picked a fight, let someone think they weren’t giving him exactly what he wanted, and held his own until he didn’t want to anymore. And Billy _likes_ that Steve fights back, likes the look of bruised and bloodied knuckles on him, likes the way they make his slender fingers look dangerous. Like he’s some sort of threat.

Steve runs a tongue over his lip and nods, short and jerky. Now that Billy’s looking at it, glistening with Steve’s spit in the low light, he can see that it’s split, too. Still healing. Still raw, like Steve just won’t stop playing with it with his tongue. With his teeth.

Billy can’t stop himself. He moves his hand and presses the pad of his thumb there, too, against the cut on Steve’s lip, hard, until he can feel the teeth sharp against the back of it.

Steve goes a little still, frozen like a statue under Billy’s Midas touch.

But Steve's _better_ than solid gold. He's warm, he's supple. He's tarnished and unwanted.

Steve’s breath is hot over Billy’s hand, his mouth half open as he allows Billy’s thumb to push over that still-healing wound. Billy wonders, if he pushed hard enough, could he open the scab back up? Could he make Steve bleed again?

Maybe it was someone with a ring, Billy thinks. A thick one. One of those clunky class ones. He knows the feeling of one of those breaking skin, the way they take chunks away with them, the way they sting.

When he pulls back -- because he can’t stay that way forever -- there’s spit on his thumb.

He wishes, instead, for blood.

Thinks, _it would be so easy_.

\--

That night, in the darkness and the quiet of his room, Billy gets himself off to thoughts of blood and spit. Of pretty lips sucking greedily on his thumb.

When he comes, he nearly chokes on it.

He bites down on his lip until it bleeds.


	3. i itch all night

**July, 1986**

Billy watches the fireworks from the hood of his Camaro, high, as the lights bloom in the broad expanse of sky above him.

By the time Max slides onto the hood next to him, he realizes he’s graduated to just watching the stars.

“Steve was wondering where you were,” she says.

Like Billy ever got some sort of _invitation_ to whatever they were doing.

The sky is so dark, out here in the country. In the city, in _California_ , it never gets quite pitch black like this, dark enough where you can lose yourself in the milky way.

“I thought _Steve_ didn’t exactly hang out with you shitstains anymore.”

Billy lights up a cigarette. Debates offering it to her. Thinks better of it. Does anyway.

She doesn’t even cough, which is hilarious, but not entirely unexpected. Billy started smoking younger than her. And while Neil doesn’t smoke, Susan does. When she’s stressed, when she’s mad, when Billy’s dad gets a little too mean. It’s already coded into Max’s blood -- it was just a matter of time.

“He doesn’t, not really. He mostly just stopped driving us places. But he’s busy all the time now.”

“What a pity for you,” Billy says, blowing clouds toward the too clear sky, hoping maybe they’ll stick.

Max is quiet for a moment, before she says, careful: “Are you two, like, friends now?”

Billy just laughs, because it’s funny. Because most of the time, Billy would rather punch Steve than even stand next to him. Would rather knock him to the ground to give him a few more bruises for his tally. Would rather snarl like a wild dog and sink his teeth into that pale and sallow skin.

\--

Billy wraps his fingers around Harrington’s wrist. They’re both leaning against the side of the Camaro, smoking outside the general store. It’s after closing and the windows have all gone dark, but there’s still some color left in the sky. Something yellow, something green.

There’s a storm brewing on the horizon and it’s got Billy ready to crawl right out of his skin.

He doesn't even remember what Steve said to piss him off. It's not important. It's just important that, this time, it worked.

There are ugly bruises in the shape of fingers around Harrington’s wrist. He’s probably got a matching set, but Billy can only see, can only grab the one. He squeezes, fingers tight around scrawny bone until Steve gasps and grumbles and tries to tug himself free.

“What the hell, man?”

He even drops his cigarette, Billy’s touch is so rough. Maybe because Billy grabs and _twists_ , feeling the skin protest and chafe under his grip. It goes hot, like burning, like fire.

Steve hisses.

And then he stomps on Billy’s foot. Heel first. Real dirty.

Billy _loves it_. He barks out a laugh, pulls Steve close for a moment -- and then shoves him back, letting go, relishing the way he hits the door of his BMW with a heavy _thwump_.

But Steve doesn’t slump to the ground, he just rights himself with a grunt. There’s a grin a mile wide on his face as he throws himself at Billy, shoving him back against the Camaro. Steve’s hot and unyielding against him, despite his frailness. He’s a vicious thing, all full of fury and spite and fear and it shows in his movements, in his attacks. He’s better at planting his feet these days, and he’s better at throwing punches.

When he lands one against Billy’s jaw, Billy can’t help but cackle. The bloom of pain hits him with an addictive rush and the taste of blood on his tongue is just so _good_. So, he falls into it. Just lets himself _go_.

They’re not really fighting to _win_ , just going at it, delighted. Adrenaline addled and stupid.

Billy finally pushes forward and gets a fist in Steve’s hair, fingers tangling in it like he’s always dreamed of. He yanks back until Steve is finally _still_ , movements rendered inert, gasping and breathing heavy. His bloody teeth are parted in a wide, nightmarish grin. He licks his teeth, a mirror of what Billy does, and it’s strange, seeing such a familiar expression on someone else’s face, like a desperate fantasy.

So easily, he could lean forward, could lick the blood from Steve’s lips, from his teeth, like a predator, like the monster he is. Ravenous for it. Starved.

His mouth waters. His fingers itch.

It takes him a long time to let go.

\--

Jonathan gets Billy in the jaw, a brutal punch with nothing held back, the next time Billy’s idling outside the Byers’ house.

He’s leaning against the Camaro as usual, ignoring everyone else, _also_ as usual -- which is how he misses it. After all, he didn’t think anyone was stupid enough to _hit_ him. Not here. Not where he went berserk and showed them all what he was made of.

Billy’s not _mad_ , but he _is_ annoyed, and that’s probably more dangerous, in the end.

When he spits onto the ground, there’s a bit of blood mixed in. It hits the gravel driveway, dark against the dry dirt. It’s been too long since it rained.

“Not that I don’t _appreciate_ it, Byers,” Billy says, rocking back, fists clenching and at the ready. “But what’s got you all worked up?”

Byers’ eye twitches. His scowl is hard, brutal. The rage is right there underneath his skin, crawling like an electric current across his veins and Billy can _see_ it, can follow the way it flows through him. He wonders if Jonathan was just born like this, all fury and fermenting anger, or if he learned it from somewhere, too.

“Nancy _told_ you to stay away from him,” Jonathan says.

And Billy, he cackles.

It’s even better than the punch to his face, the sheer _delight_ he gets out of the look on Jonathan’s face. Like he expected Billy to keep a promise, to be kind, to be _gentle_.

Like he thinks _Steve_ is the damsel in distress. Like he doesn’t think Steve wanted Billy to start something. Like he doesn’t know Steve at all.

“Come on, Byers, hit me again. Add your handiwork to the bruises your boyfriend gave me,” Billy taunts, feet planted, _ready_.

Because his face is a masterpiece of Steve’s handiwork. Those knuckles left bruises like kisses all over, painting Billy in his best light. And while Billy’s a fan of it as it is, he wouldn’t mind some embellishment, just for kicks.

But --

“ _Jonathan_ ,” Nancy’s voice breaks out over the stillness of the air, sharp and fierce. She’s on the porch, watching them. Like an emperor and her gladiators.

Billy’s a little in love with her ire. He bets she could pack a hell of a punch.

Jonathan doesn’t want to listen to her. Billy can tell. It’s all in his body language, like he’s debating if he can just plow forward and get another punch in before he pretends he didn’t hear her. It’s admirable, kind of.

“Go on, hit me,” Billy taunts.

He’s not offering Byers something free, though. Billy’s more than ready to swing back this time, ready to plow Jonathan straight into the ground. He could make it his tradition, here at this shithole of a house.

Jonathan’s whole body twitches, like he’s thinking about it. He jerks. A false-start.

And then, when Nancy says his name _again_ , in the same tone that Billy recognizes as a _threat_ , Byers drops his stance. Takes a step back.

“You didn’t see him, Nancy,” Jonathan’s saying, while Billy’s rolling his eyes and lighting up a cigarette now that the storm’s passed.

Now that the fun’s over.

“Quit pretending that his face doesn’t look _better_ like that,” Billy says. Because he’s right; it does.

Nancy removes herself from the porch, deigning to join the common-folk below. She looks a little like she’s ready to punch Billy too, to take him down a couple pegs. She’ll have to start digging, because Billy’s always been as low as the dirt underneath their feet.

She sucks on her teeth, lips going thin, like she’s trying to bide time, to think.

“Look, Steve is going through a lot right now,” is what she settles on, which is just stupid, really.

It’s a bad excuse.

“We’re all going through _shit_ , sweetheart.”

Jonathan jolts again, like he’s been shocked. Nancy puts a hand on his arm, like _that’s_ gonna stop him from decking Billy again.

“Look,” Billy says. “If you want me to leave Harrington alone, you should probably tell him to stop starting shit.”

“Bullshit,” Wheeler says. “Like you don’t start it every time, Hargrove.”

And _that’s_ hilarious. Because Steve’s pretty much _always_ the one begging for Billy to fuck him up, always the one plucking at all of Billy’s strings like he’s a musician, thumbing his trigger, trying anything to egg him on. To make him snap. Honestly, Billy deserves a goddamn _medal_ for not folding at every turn. For not giving in every time. After all, he has to give Steve a chance to heal. A chance for Steve to really _savor_ it.

Billy wouldn’t want him getting bored.

“Sounds like you don’t really know him at all anymore, huh?” Billy says, just to watch Nancy’s face twist into a scowl.

“Watch it, Hargrove,” Jonathan says.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Billy says, hands in the air like he _doesn’t_ want a fight, which is funny, too. “It’s not my fault you guys have grown apart. Not my fault he doesn’t trust you.”

And Billy doesn’t _know_ what’s going on with Steve, doesn’t know why he’s so messed up in the head. At first, Billy thought it was just depression, just Harrington moping about his love lost with Wheeler. But now, Billy’s not so sure.

Harrington’s -- well, he’s _real_ messed up. Spiraling. Self-destructing like he’s made for it.

And Billy doesn’t know what to do with that, other than to help him make it worse.

“Just -- leave him alone, alright?” Nancy says, arms crossed.

And she’s so small, so slight. But so much stronger than Steve. Than Jonathan, too.

Billy tongues over his lip, tastes the dusk in the air and the blood still on his tongue. He _thinks_ about it. Gives it serious consideration, just for the hell of it.

But Hawkins would be so _boring_ without Steve Harrington. And Billy’s never been good with kicking up his heels and waiting for time to pass. Never been good at just cooling his jets. After all, the summer’s long and the air is too hot. Too still. Billy has to keep himself moving, has to keep the bite of pain fresh in his mind.

He’s got to _help_. In the only way he knows how.

“No promises, babe. Not if he won’t leave me alone, first,” Billy says. “But here, how about this: I tell him you were _real concerned_ about him and see what he does with that, huh?”

Because Billy doesn’t know Steve, doesn’t understand him at all. But he _does_ know that Steve wouldn’t be all too thrilled about his ex-girlfriend trying to fight his battles for him, especially the ones he _wants_ to fight.

He knows it’ll break them apart even further.

“Don’t you dare, Hargrove,” she tells him.

Like Billy’s actually gonna do what she says if she wants it hard enough.

And _baby_ , everyone wants _something_.

Hope doesn’t get you anywhere. If you _really_ want something, Billy’s learned you gotta take it for yourself. You gotta work for it.

“Then fuck off about it, huh? If your pathetic ex wants me to punch his face in, that’s none of your business, is it? Especially if you want me to keep quiet about this.”

Because that’s really and truly what Billy wants: for Steve to keep pushing his buttons, for Steve’s attention to stay focused on him. He wants, so desperately and so painfully, to break Steve apart in his hands.

He wants to be his destruction, his demise.

It’s only a pity that Billy didn’t get there fast enough to be the one to _start_ Steve on this freefall. That he _wasn’t_ the one to push him over the edge.

But in the end? Nothing Nancy Wheeler says is going to stop Billy from getting what he wants.

\--

“Hey, _baby_?” Billy says, all sweet, all sugary.

They’re in the grass of Harrington’s back yard. It’s freshly cut and the scent of it is cluttering up Billy’s head with nature, with growth, with life. The blades still tickle the back of his neck, itch at the skin of his shoulders through his shirt. He turns onto his side to look at Steve, who’s staring up at the blue sky from behind his Ray Bans like the great big unknown’s got all the answers in the world.

With the amount of drugs Steve’s on? Maybe it does.

“Yeah?” Steve says, a little slow, a little stupid. If he’s not itching to fight, that’s pretty par for the course.

He doesn’t seem to relax much, when Billy’s not around.

Billy always catches him in the middle of something. The middle of a fight, the middle of losing himself at a party, the middle of skulking around the woods, late at night. He’s so rarely _still_. Unless Billy’s around, unless Billy’s asking for something that’s not a fight.

Billy toys with the words on his tongue, gets a real flavor of them before releasing them out to the world. In the end, he deems them delicious. Savory, and a little bitter, too.

“Had a nice little chat with your ex the other day.”

And it’s a little funny that Steve didn’t notice Billy’s extra bruise, but he so rarely does. He’s not like Billy, who knows each and every blemish he puts on Steve’s skin. Knows when there’s a new one, knows when his are starting to fade. Billy views them as gifts, as offerings to Steve’s self-destruction. Like Billy’s trying to help him complete the vision, guiding Steve’s hand toward a prettier picture.

“Oh?”

“She’s real feisty. Tried to get me to leave you alone. Not exactly the first time she’s pulled that stunt.”

Billy reaches out, presses his thumb to a purple bruise on Steve’s jaw. Billy didn’t leave this one there, so he presses harder, until Steve hisses.

“Byers even got in a punch,” Billy says.

 _That_ gets Steve to turn, to look at Billy. Billy can’t see his eyes, can only see his reflection in those expensive sunglasses.

Billy keeps his thumb on that bruise.

“He _hit_ you?”

“I think he thought he was defending your honor. Maybe you got yourself an _admirer_ , huh, pretty boy?”

Billy’s always gotten the impression that if Steve tried his little bar fight trick on Byers, he’d be damn far from _punching_ Harrington.

“Billy,” Steve says, reaching out to touch the fresh bruise on Billy’s face. His fingers brush, too gentle, too soft, over the skin and it scalds. Like a burn. Like saltwater lapping at a wound.

But Billy doesn’t flinch away, just grinds his teeth together, jaw clenched. He’s not afraid of anything. Isn’t gonna let Steve make him flinch first.

He doesn’t know what kind of picture this is, the two of them lying in the grass, touching each other’s faces, but it doesn’t sit well in his gut, twisting and turning and churning like he’s suddenly had too much to drink.

So, Billy grabs Steve’s chin, digs his fingers in on either side. His hand slips because he lets it, falling down and down until it’s covering Steve’s throat, until he’s pressing in, fingers curling around Steve’s windpipe, until he can feel every breath underneath the hammering of his own heartbeat. Billy ignores his own heavy breathing, focuses himself solely on Steve’s.

“He hit you,” Steve says, voice rough. Ruined. Eyes still on Billy’s face. _Hand_ still on Billy’s face. Even with Billy’s on his throat.

Billy tightens his grip, just a bit. “Would you let me?” he asks, because doesn’t _want_ to talk about Jonathan now, even though he’s the one who brought it up.

He doesn’t want Jonathan in this world he’s created with Steve. Doesn’t want Nancy there, either.

And Steve, Steve _nods_.

It’s just a jerky little movement of his head, but it sends a rush through Billy’s ribcage like a current, like a white hot bolt of lightning.

“Say it,” Billy demands.

“I’d let you,” Steve says, because he’s too dumb, too reckless. Too eager to let Billy help him fall apart.

It’s pathetic. It’s beautiful.

It makes Billy want to surge forward and run backward as fast as he can at the same time. His thoughts are split, pulling in different directions. Dark corners wherever he looks.

Billy squeezes his fingers until Steve wheezes, until he feels Steve struggle to breathe against his palm. Billy plays with him like a toy until he’s bored, until he feels too warm in the summer sun.

When he pulls his hand back, there are bruises on Steve’s throat.

Steve’s fingers fall from Billy’s face as he pushes himself up and away, to seek solace in the cool and chemical waters of the pool.

\--

It’s mid July when Billy realizes he’s driving faster than he has control over. He knows the feeling well, from blazing too fast down country roads, knowing he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, couldn’t turn to avoid an obstacle or a curve in the road.

Steve Harrington makes a strange heat coil in his stomach, barbed and vicious, and he doesn’t need to look too closely at it to know that it’s dangerous. That it’s malignant and growing more deadly with every passing day.

The problem is, Steve is addictive. His self-determined destruction is sweeter than any dessert Billy’s ever had on his tongue, and the fact that Billy get gets to play a part in that is too heady a prospect to give up.

Billy’s incapable, at this point, of saying no. Of tearing himself away even when he knows he should.

He can’t slow down, can’t even turn the wheel -- he’s just rocketing forward at breakneck speeds, waiting for the crash.

Billy’s at a party when he hits the first bump. When he sees the obstacle coming ahead, miles away and still absolutely unavoidable.

Steve barely even asks Billy to come anymore. Just tells him where he’s going and _knows_ Billy’ll be there in his wake, partaking in the free booze offered by the hosts and the free drugs offered by Steve.

It’s usually not hard to find Steve amongst the sea of well-boozed party guests, but tonight, Billy’s having a hard time of it. It’s like he can’t find Steve _anywhere_. Not in the kitchen, not in the backyard by the keg, not even vomiting in the flower beds. Not that the house even _has_ flower beds -- just a tangle of bushes at the side, which is something Billy _knows_ because he fucking _checked_ there already.

Anyway, Steve’s _nowhere_ and this party is boring. It’s a bunch of college kids Billy doesn’t know, the _artsy types_ , like Jonathan fucking Byers and his spitfire of a girlfriend. All the chicks look too _unique_ and contentious -- which is absolutely not Billy’s type for a quick hookup, _thanks_ \-- and all the guys look like chicks or like Sting, and Billy doesn’t know what to _do_ with that either, so he just drinks. And drinks. And drinks a little more.

It helps with the boredom, but then he’s just dizzy, meandering around a house he doesn’t know, keeping himself entertained by trying to find Harrington, even though Billy’s now reasonably sure he’s not even _here_.

He stumbles his way upstairs, past a circle of people dropping acid, past a chick riding some guy’s dick real slow while they toke on a fat joint, past some screaming couple having an argument in one of the bedrooms about _putting out_.

It’s only when he pushes his way into the master bedroom that he stops in his tracks.

Some guy’s sitting on the edge of the bed, legs splayed wide, getting what looks like _fantastic_ head, judging by the look on his face, from someone kneeling between his legs.

“What the fuck?” the guy says, when he finally notices Billy, who’s _maybe_ staring from the doorway, but only because he feels a little stuck, like his brain is trying to catch up with something and he’s _just_ not there yet.

Because he _knows_ the back of that head, that mop of brown hair that’s bobbing between the guy’s legs, he _knows_ it and yet -- it’s like he just can’t _place_ it, too stupid with booze, too caught off-guard.

It’s fine, though, because the mystery is solved for him after a beat, after the guy goes, “Seriously, buddy, get the fuck out,” after the person between his legs pulls off his dick, after they turn around and --

\-- and it’s _Steve fucking Harrington_ looking at him with those big goddamn doe eyes of his, with that big mop of unruly hair, pulling the back of his hand over his mouth like he’s wiping off _spit_ , going “Can I _help_ you?” as he wobbles on his knees.

And Billy’s in the front yard before he can even blink, breathing heavy and tight, the slam of the bedroom door behind him only a faint memory in his head.

\--

Billy wakes up in the driver’s seat of his Camaro. It’s where he left it before the party, parked halfway down the block, in front of a strand of trees that are doing very little to keep the dawn light out of his eyes. His mouth tastes like a dumpster and his head feels like it’s going to split open at the seams, but he’s alive and not wrapped around a tree, so he calls it a win.

He still feels a little drunk, but he drives himself to the diner anyway. Gets himself a cheap breakfast and an even cheaper coffee and then tries not to think.

And fails, within the first few minutes of his resolution.

No matter how much Billy drank last night, he couldn’t manage to wipe the fucking memory out of his head. Steve Harrington, sitting pretty on his knees, with a fat dick on his tongue. It’s ingrained -- no, it’s _burned_  -- in there forever, something glaring and bright that Billy will never be able to forget.

He _hates_ it.

The anger eats at him like acid, churning in his gut like a storm.

He tries to focus it, the rage and the ire, but he doesn’t even know where to start.

As he finishes his eggs, he can’t believe he didn’t _know_. As he plows through the last of the bacon, he dwells on how _lied to_ he feels, how betrayed. As he downs the rest of his coffee and slams the mug down onto the table, he focuses himself on the most important part: that Steve _knew_ that Billy would find him. Steve fucking _invited_ Billy to the party and then, for all intents and purposes, hid from him, when he _knew_ that Billy would come looking like a predator for his prey.

He knew Billy would find him. He knew Billy would find him like that. He set it all up.

For _what_ , though? That’s the million dollar question.

And Billy fully intends to find out.

\--

Billy doesn’t even bother knocking, just barges into Steve’s house because the door is never locked, because Steve’s too goddamn stupid and reckless to close it. Because he’s too goddamn idiotic to see Billy Hargrove coming.

He’s not downstairs, not outside. Not anywhere easy, of course.

Billy finds Steve in his room, sitting in the goddamn lounger in a beam of morning light from his window.

He looks like he hasn't slept at all, still in rumpled clothes from the night before. Billy bets he smells like alcohol, like sweat, and probably like fucking _dick_ , too.

“Hey,” Steve says, not bothering to look up from the magazine he’s paging through.

So goddamn nonchalant.

The rage eats at Billy like a cancer, boiling right underneath his skin.

“So,” Billy bites out, “when exactly were you planning on telling me you were a fucking queer?”

“Whenever it came up,” Steve says with a shrug, like it’s nothing, still refusing to meet Billy's eyes.

It's not a shy thing, like it should be. It's aggressive, in a very Steve Harrington sort of way. Billy knows Steve well enough now to know that.

“Yeah, well, it fucking _came_ up,” Billy growls, unable to stop himself from advancing on Steve.

And Steve just laughs, cackling like it's some fucking joke. “Donno how you _didn't_ know. I told you I offered to suck dick. What'd you expect, Hargrove?”

“That you liked getting your face beat in,” Billy snaps. “That you had come up with a smart fucking trick to make that happen.”

Now, Billy doesn't think it's _smart_ at all.

Billy feels fucking _lied_ to, feels fucking betrayed. Just like those guys at those bars would be, if they had known they were being played: Steve wasn't just trying to pick a fight -- he was probably betting on either-or: if he got punched, great, if he got fucked, even better.

Billy shudders, just thinking about it.

He shouldn't care, because _he_ spends most of his time making Steve's bruises worse too, but he does care. He feels disgusted. He can't stop himself.

“How's this change anything, Billy?” Steve says.

He finally pushes himself up from the chair, advancing forward, meeting Billy's glare. His eyes are brown, bright. So big.

And why does Steve not _get_ this?

“It changes fucking _everything_ ,” Billy snarls.

He can't stop himself. He feels like a kettle boiling on the stove, whistling and whistling and whistling, only _seconds_ from boiling over.

He's seething. Fuming. Dying, a little, inside.

His fist meets Steve's cheek before he even realizes he’s swung.

Steve stumbles back, like he forgot to plant his feet, _still_ , but he's laughing. Billy wonders, for the briefest of seconds, if he's high. He so rarely gets to see Steve in the early mornings like this.

“Wow, Billy, I didn't take you for the _jealous_ type,” Steve says.

And Billy bristles. He _knows_ , fundamentally, what Steve's doing -- trying to egg him on, trying to make Billy madder and meaner -- but knowing doesn't help much.

“Fuck you, you lying _fag_.”

This time Billy aims his punch at Steve's stomach.

Steve buckles, but then he's up again nearly instantly and throwing back another punch of his own.

“If you wanted a piece of me, all you had to do was _ask_ ,” Steve goes.

“I want _nothing_ to do with you.”

Which isn't quite true, is it? Not when Billy's fist feels so good meeting Steve's jaw, not when he itches to fist his hand in Steve's hair and use that leverage to slam his head against the wall.

Steve's laugh is louder now, like he's getting off on the trading of punches. On Billy's rage turned into pain, into art, on Steve's skin. Steve's nose is already bleeding, but Billy's lip is split from a good one Steve got in and Billy's blood is _singing_ , like he just can't get enough.

“You know what I think, Hargrove?” Steve asks, stumbling back from another punch, breathing hard through pink lips. “I think that the lady doth protest too much.”

And he's grinning, grinning, grinning with bloody teeth.

Like he's got one up on Billy. Like he knows _anything_ about Billy at all.

Billy stops in his tracks and bares his teeth in a snarl, rage even hotter now. Anger bubbling lava-like in his gut.

“Shut the fuck _up_ ,” Billy snaps.

But Steve doesn't.

Because he's stupid.

Or maybe because he's smart.

“No, _really_. The more you fucking deny it, the clearer it becomes. I think you _want_ me, Hargrove. I think you're just too much of a pussy to admit it.”

 _That_ earns Steve the punch in the face that he was asking for. Because Billy's _generous_ like that.

He _should_ leave, he knows. Should punch him a couple more times and then leave Steve here, broken and unconscious on the ground like he did a year and a half ago. It would be so easy. Billy certainly could hit him harder, could certainly make him scream before he passed out.

But he can't deny the rush of this, the way he _likes_ trading punches with Steve. It's addictive. Worse than any drug he's ever tried. _Better_.

“I'm not a queer,” Billy hisses, after Steve lands a good one. He spits blood onto Steve's expensive carpet, because he's sure Harrington would hate that.

Or maybe he’d _love_ it. Billy doesn't know the guy at all, after all.

“I think,” Steve says, “that _no one_ denies it as much as someone who _is._ I mean, _look at you,_ Hargrove.” And Steve gestures to him, then, looks at Billy _all over_. Checking him out. “You're fucking _hard_.”

And that makes Billy _burn_.

His blood whistles in his ears, boiling kettle spilling over and over and over.

He hits Steve in the gut, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Steve falls down to his knees, breathing ragged, panting hard.

“Fuck you,” Billy spits. “Haven't you ever fought before?” Because it's not _unusual_. It's not even _uncommon_ to pop a boner while fighting someone. It's just something that everyone  _ignores_ as common fucking courtesy. 

“I think you want me,” Steve says, once he's caught his breath, looking up at Billy from on his knees. He’s grinning, a mile wide, and Billy wants to ruin him. Wants to wipe that smile right off his face.

He's got a fist in Steve's hair before he can stop himself. Billy tugs him back and back, until Steve is gasping at the strain. Until he's is looking up at Billy with those big brown eyes. They're watery as hell, like Billy's pulling hard enough to make tears well up and threaten to spill over.

He's such a pretty goddamn picture. And Billy painted this one all by himself.

Steve’s grinning again, toothy and triumphant.

“I think --,” he starts.

But Billy doesn't _care_ what Steve thinks.

“Shut _up_ ,” Billy tells him.

He yanks on Steve's hair again, just to hear him gasp.

Billy feels like his heart’s about to climb out of his throat. He feels like he's going to lose his breakfast. He feels like he's going to drop dead, right here, right now, in a bloody mess on Steve’s bedroom floor.

Steve opens his mouth to yap again, so Billy grabs him by the jaw with his free hand, gets his thumb over Steve's bottom lip. Forcing him to keep his mouth open, just a bit, breath hot and heavy over Billy's fingers.

“What, is _this_ what you wanted?” Billy asks.

His voice doesn't even sound like his own.

It's mean and rough and wicked, too.

Fuck, he’s so _hard_.

Steve groans, and Billy doesn't even need to look to know that he’s hard, too. His hand jerks with the movement of Steve nodding, sharp and decisive.

So, Billy clenches his fist in Steve's hair a little tighter and slides his thumb into Steve's mouth.

Like it's easy. Like it's nothing.

He forgets how to breathe.

The noise Steve makes around his digit is sinful. Low and depraved. It makes Billy's stomach drop, makes his gut twist and his cock ache. Steve's lips close around him and he sucks, needy, tongue rolling around Billy's thumb like he’s hungry, like he's lapping up for scraps.

Steve's tongue is soft and slick when Billy slides the pad of his thumb over it. When he pushes too far back, Steve gags, so Billy does it again and then again, catching Steve's back molars just to feel the bite of teeth against skin.

He's fumbling with the zipper on his jeans before he can even think about it, pulling out his cock and feeding it into Steve's eager mouth.

It’s hot and wet, just like any bitch’s, but there's something about the way that Harrington moves that is vicious and sharp, frantic and fierce. Distinctly masculine. Billy fists both hands into Steve's hair, gets his fingers twisted up in it, and urges him forward. Not like Steve needs any _help_ : he's already going to town on Billy's cock, giving him the most enthusiastic blowjob in the history of Billy’s life. In all of history, maybe.

It's fucking unholy is what it is.

When Billy fucks his face, Steve just takes it, swallowing down around Billy's cock like he does this every goddamn day.

For all Billy knows, he _does_. 

So many men could have been here before Billy, and that only makes him fuck Steve harder.

The sounds are depraved. It's messy and loud and Billy can't get enough of the wet noise of it, the way Steve gags, the sick squelch of too much spit, Steve's _moans,_ the way it all fills up the silence of the room.

When his orgasm comes, it's a surprise. It hits him like a punch to the gut, hard and instant and rough as hell.

Billy swallows down his groan, choking on it. His fists tighten in Steve's hair as he comes down Steve's throat.

Steve’s mouth milks him through it, swallowing him down, tongue lapping at Billy's cock like it's a treat. Like Billy’s given him something _special._

Like Billy gave him exactly what he asked for.

Billy shoves Steve back like he’s been burned. Surprised, or just tired, Steve falls back on his ass, laughing again. Always laughing, like there's some joke Billy just doesn't get. Like he's high, all the fucking time. His mouth is red and his lips are swollen and covered in spit. Billy’s fingers itch to reach out, to touch them.

Instead, Billy tucks himself back into his pants. The sound of his zipper is loud in the space stretching between them.

He feels disgusted. He feel angry. He feels fucking fantastic.

Steve laughs again as Billy runs his fingers through his hair, trying desperately to pick up his thoughts. It’s impossible.

Billy leaves him there, sprawled out on the floor of his bedroom like he had imagined earlier. Not unconscious this time, but ruined and stupid and unwanted.

\--

He smokes and smokes, running through pack after pack, dumping the bones of his anxiety and anger at his feet. Running through excuses and nightmares and daydreams with each and every inhale.

The darkness of the Hawkins woods eats him up inside.


	4. i touched you but it starts to hurt

It's an early Sunday in August when Billy cuts his hair.

He's feeling itchy and cooped up in his house. Neil’s patience had finally worn thin again the previous night, annoyed by Billy’s mysterious bruises, by his acidic attitude. He had taken Billy by the hair, had called him queer, called him a fag. Like he had known where Billy had been only a couple of nights previous. Like he could smell the shame on him.

He probably could.

Billy’s barely been able to keep it skin deep.

After Neil heads to work in the morning, Billy steals the kitchen sheers and holes himself up in the bathroom for an hour, hoping for something close to relief.

It's nothing like perfection, but when it’s done he feels free. A little less weighted down.

Max laughs when she sees him, asks him where _Billy_ went -- and then Susan helps him fix the back. Because while she's more than useless in so many ways, she cuts Max’s hair on the regular and she offered to even out Billy’s without being a total bitch about it.

It ends up better than he thought. A little shorter on the sides and longer on the top. More military. More classic. Something his dad can't scoff at. Something his dad can't get his hands in.

“You look almost like a real person,” Max says.

If only she knew how far from the truth that was.

Billy's not even close to real anymore. He's getting further and further from it by the day.

\--

“Holy _shit_ ,” Billy hears one of the kids say from the arcade when he goes to pick up Max.

Max says something. Billy doesn't hear it, can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he lights up a cigarette and shouts out the window for her to _hurry the fuck up._

The kids are all still talking. Huddled in a little cluster, sneaking looks at him and ducking back in, like Billy's fucking blind, or some shit. Like they're being stealthy.

They're not.

“Hurry it _up,_ Maxine!” Billy shouts.

He's not actually in any hurry to get home. Neil's away on business and Susan’s doing some bookclub shit, so Billy's in charge of dinner. But -- that _also_ means it's shitty boxed mac n’ cheese, which he kind of loves, so.

That, and he can lock himself in his room and jack off for the rest of the night. See how many times he can get himself off.

Maybe he _is_ in a hurry after all.

Max shouts something stupid at him, some excuse he ignores. Billy doesn't really care. If she pulls this shit with his dad for much longer, if she picks up bad habits like this, she'll be in for a nasty surprise.

“-- look _one_ haircut doesn't mean _anything,”_ one of the kids goes.

“Right!? -- doesn't mean he's not still evil!” goes another.

“Look I can fucking _hear_ you,” Billy shouts, out the window. Because he kind of _can_ and because it’s annoying as hell.

They finally shut up.

“So,” Max says when she gets into the car. “Are you like, turning over a new leaf, or --?”

“No.”

With his hair short like this, Neil can’t grab him by it any more. With his hair short like this, Billy hates himself an ounce less when he looks in the mirror. That’s it.

She stays quiet for a while. Ratt drums along in the background.

“Your bruises are healing,” she says.

“Shut up,” Billy says.

They're only healing because he's been avoiding Steve. And he doesn't want to talk about Steve. Doesn't want to even _think_ about Steve. Which is probably exactly why the next thing she says is:

“Have you seen Steve?”

Because she's stupid.

Because the world hates Billy Hargrove.

The rush of anger is instant. So fast he barely even sees it coming.

“I _told_ you to shut the fuck _up_ ,” Billy shouts, fists slamming down on the steering wheel because he wants to lash out. Because he’s got no other outlet. His usual one’s gone all queer.

Immediately, he turns the volume up as far as it’ll go.

Max slumps in her seat.

Billy seethes all the way home.

\--

Billy doesn't want to see Steve.

He goes to the big party up on Oak anyway, even though he knows Steve’ll be there, even though he _knows_ they'll run into each other.

They'll have to, at some point. It's a small town and August always drags on forever in Indiana.

It's probably easier, seeing Steve when he’s doing that thing where he gets fucked out of his head. When he maybe won't remember Billy being there. Like maybe he won't remember Billy stealing glances at him all throughout the party.

His face is healing. It looks worse without Billy's bruises on it.

Steve finds him well past midnight. Loops his fingers around Billy's forearm and pulls him into a bathroom. Billy’s drunk and dumb and bad at self-restraint, so he doesn't say no.

“You want some blow?” Steve asks.

Billy bristles.

Steve just grins. “Don't get your pantries in a bunch, Hargrove. I know you're not _queer_.” Steve lets go of Billy's arm. The skin feels cold without his fingers there. “Get high with me,” Steve says. It's not a request, not even a white flag; it's a fucking _order_.

“Yessir,” Billy says, because it's funny, Steve trying to boss him around.

Because right now, that sounds like a great idea.

It’s good shit like usual. Expensive and pure. It leaves Billy's blood singing and his heart hammering along in his chest.

Steve's eyes are always so _bright_ after he's done a line, such a contrast to the dark circles underneath, bad as bruises. Billy can't stop himself from looking at them, from leaning in close and grinning.

“You look like you could use some _sleep_ , Harrington,” Billy says.

“Nice haircut,” Steve replies.

Billy grunts. It's not nice. He misses the mullet. Kind of.

Billy touches at the circles under Steve's eyes, oddly gentle. It's just so easy to reach into Steve's space even though he’s been avoiding this. He's done it too many times before. He tells himself this isn't any different.

“Are you done avoiding me, Hargrove?”

He’s brave.

“Depends. Are you done being a fag?”

“Last I checked, _I_ didn't exactly make any moves on _you._ ”

Brave. _Real_ brave.

Billy snarls. He gets Steve by the chin like he so loves to do.

“Careful, baby. I wasn't _planning_ on hitting you tonight, but I could always change my mind.”

And he kinda _likes_ the way the bruises are yellowing on Steve's face. If Billy gave him more right now, he wouldn't get to watch the change.

“Have I ever stopped you?” Steve asks, like he’s _pushing_ , pressing forward a little bit. Stepping into Billy's space. Chest to chest. Nose to nose. His breath smells like booze. His tongue probably tastes like it, too.

All of Billy goes hot. His ears, his neck, his gut. It all just _burns_.

He wants to punch, to touch, to take. He wants Steve to never stop him.

“Gimme another line,” Billy demands. He lets go of Steve’s chin like he’s been scalded.

Steve does.

Coke still burning in his nose, Billy leaves Steve in the bathroom and loses himself in the crowd outside.

\--

After that, Billy stops avoiding Steve.

Because Steve has drugs. Because Steve has expensive booze. Because Steve’s got a real punchable face. Because Steve never sleeps and somehow, he’s always exactly where Billy finds him.

Not that he’s looking.

“I told you to stay out of the woods,” Steve says.

Harrington’s so ramped up, so wide awake, that Billy thinks he might just bust straight out of his skin. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. It looks like Steve’s taken _so much_ , even for the high tolerance he’s probably got by now.

“Yeah, well,” Billy says. “Too bad I don’t ever _listen_ when you talk.”

Steve makes a frustrated noise. Then: “It’s not safe, Hargrove.”

He’s got the bat because he’s _always_ got the bat.

He probably even keeps it in his car.

“Like hell I’m going anywhere,” Billy says, because he doesn’t want to go home to that place, doesn’t want to just camp out in the Camaro for the rest of the night.

“ _Okay_ \-- well, would you come back to mine?” Steve asks, even though Billy knows Steve doesn’t want to leave these woods. Because they’re not safe, because Steve’s apparently got to put himself in the places he deems most dangerous.

Then again, being alone in a house with Billy Hargrove isn’t the safest thing, either.

“I just told you I’m not going anywhere,” Billy says, but he’s already pushing himself up from the stump he’s been sitting on, already dusting off his jeans.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Steve says.

He probably means drugs.

He could mean something else, too.

Billy should really care more about that. But.

But.

Steve piles into the passenger seat of the Camaro. Because he walked into the woods while high as a kite with nothing but a bat in his hand, because he’s stupid as hell, because he’s got a death wish as glaring as the Indiana sun in the middle of August.

Van Halen, on a beat up mixtape, plays them pretty much all the way to Harrington’s. Billy pulls up behind the BMW and cuts the engine right as ZZ Top starts in, which is a pity, because Billy fucking _loves_ ZZ Top. If he were alone, he’d stay in the car and listen to the rest of the song, but he’s not.

“How much did you _have_?” Billy asks, once they’re inside, once they’re climbing the stairs to Steve’s room.

Billy’s heart is pounding in his chest. Last time he was here -- well.

Anyway.

Last time he was here.

Steve closes the door behind them, not that he needs to. No one’s ever fucking home at the Harrington house. Not even Steve, who’s barely at home in his own fucking head.

The only answer Billy gets is a shrug, but he’s giving Billy a line, anyway, so Billy stops complaining.

It’s hilarious that Steve’s got a bottle of expensive vodka just _sitting_ on his desk, so Billy grabs it and drinks. Anything that’s Steve’s is up for grabs, he’s learned. Including his flesh. His virtue.

It’s like a party, but just the two of them.

So -- it’s really like a normal party, just bypassing the part where they avoid each other until they’re well and truly fucked up.

Billy sprawls himself out in the chair by Steve’s window, savoring the way he can _feel_ himself getting more fucked up by the moment. It’s good, so good. Much better than smoking alone in the woods. He alternates between closing his eyes and staring at Steve. Steve has spread himself out on his bed, right smack in the middle of the giant thing, lazy and pretty on rumpled sheets, like a goddamn rickety ship in tumultuous waters.

“Hey, Billy?” Steve says. He so _rarely_ calls Billy by his first name. Billy likes the way it sounds out of Steve’s lips, a little sleepy, a little soft. A little rough, like Steve’s throat is sore and his mouth is dry.

“What, pretty boy?”

“Keep me awake,” Steve says, and it’s another order, another command.

It’s like Steve’s been taking lessons from his father, like he _knows_ Billy’s got this weird thing with authority. Like he hates it and he also -- well. Something, anyway.

Billy pushes himself up from the chair and pushes himself across the infinite desert between himself and Steve’s bed. It takes a million years, but eventually Billy’s steadying himself against Steve’s mattress with his palms. Eventually he’s pulling himself up and onto it, flopping down next to Steve like he belongs there.

He’s never been on the bed like this at the same time as Steve, before. He’s laid in it before, sprawled out and loose, while Steve’s sat in the chair or paced on the floor. But he’s never been this close to Steve before in a place so soft, so luxurious. Has never been this close without the undertone of violence there.

“Keep me awake,” Steve says again.

Billy’s pulse thunders in his ears.

Steve’s eyes are so goddamn big and Billy thinks this is _probably_ just a dream.

It would be cool if he stopped dreaming about Steve Harrington, but.

He hasn’t.

So.

Billy gets Steve by the chin, holds him still -- not that he was moving much before. But this way, Billy feels connected to him. Like Steve can’t just float himself away like he so wants to.

“You want me to keep you awake?” Billy asks.

Steve nods in his hand.

So Billy takes a breath -- it’s so hard to fill his lungs, they’re tight and unwilling at first -- and then moves. He swings a leg over Steve and inches forward on his knees, until he’s straddling Steve’s torso. Until he’s looking down at his crotch and Steve’s pretty lips.

Billy’s already hard, straining in his jeans. It should be way more surprising. Instead, it just feels like an inevitability. It feels like fate when he unzips and gets a hand around himself, a few quick tugs just for the sake of it. Like he’s gotta _work_ to get himself harder. What a joke.

Steve’s mouth is just as perfect as he remembers. Pretty in pink and so perfectly wet and slick. _Better_ than any bitches. For so _many_ reasons. Because Steve’s not afraid to use a little teeth, not afraid to take Billy into his mouth deep enough to choke. Because he _likes_ it when Billy gets his fingers in Steve’s hair and pulls, tangling them tight in Steve’s mess of hair. Because he’s groaning too, like Billy’s cock is the most delicious thing he’s tasted in years.

It’s over too soon. When Steve swallows him down like a good bitch, Billy wants nothing more than to just keep his dick in Steve’s mouth, to let himself get soft on Steve’s tongue. It’d keep Steve quiet, at least. Keep them from having to talk about any of this.

Because now that he’s no longer riding the hazy train of pleasure, Billy feels all too sober.

The world, too bright and too loud, crashing in from the other side.

He pulls himself out of Steve’s mouth and tucks himself back into his pants, dick still covered in spit. Still covered in remnants of come. He doesn’t, however, even bother getting off of Steve. Billy just keeps straddling him, pinning him down to the bed, trapping him with his bodyweight.

“Billy,” Steve says, and he sounds _rough_. Fucked up.

Steve squirms.

He sounds -- fuck, he sounds _turned on_.

The realization sends a curl of _something_ straight to Billy’s gut.

And yeah, Steve is panting, open-mouthed and hazy-eyed. Looking up at Billy like he put the _stars_ in the goddamn _sky_ , which just isn’t _fair._ No one should look at Billy like that, especially not Steve, who Billy just wants to break.

“The fuck am I supposed to do for _you_?” Billy asks, head swimming, even though he shouldn’t. He should just keep his mouth _shut_.

It’s not like Billy’s gonna suck him off. He’s not queer. He’s not a fag.

He’s not like Steve.

“ _Please_ ,” Steve begs, and he sounds so goddamn _pretty_. Just like a girl.

Billy shifts until he’s got one knee between Steve’s legs, thigh grinding down against Steve’s crotch. With Steve in sweatpants, it doesn’t leave much to the imagination, but Billy’s still in jeans and they give a little bit of protection, a bit of a barrier between the two of them.

The second Billy gives him something to rut against, Steve moans in relief. It’s a beautiful, broken noise, and even though Billy’s already gotten off, it sends another surge of heat to his gut. Steve rolls his hips like a goddamn pornstar, grinding against the meat of Billy’s thigh. _Humping_ Billy’s leg like he’s mad for it, like he’s a dog.

It should make Billy sick, the feeling of another guy’s erection against him. It _should_.

Billy hates it, hates that it _doesn't_ , and so he sinks his teeth into Steve's shoulder, through soft cotton, until Steve groans. Until Steve nearly screams.

Nails dig into Billy's back, snagging and pulling against flesh. Urging Billy closer, like Steve's trying to use him as leverage to crawl out of his own skin. He's sweaty and they both smell like booze, strong enough to make Billy dizzy, head spinning with the moment, with the frantic energy, with Steve's _need_.

Billy wants to tell him to hurry it up.

And he kinda wants to savor it forever, too.

Because Steve's holding onto Billy like he's the only person left in the world, and he's panting wet hot breaths against Billy's shoulder, more turned on, more fucking _depraved_ than any bitch Billy's ever put his dick in.

Steve doesn't shout when he comes like Billy thought he might. He just goes all silent, all rigid, all _tight_.

When Billy pulls back and looks at him -- which he shouldn't do, too -- he looks like he's in pain. Like Billy just socked him right in the gut. Pretty face all scrunched up, red and blotchy, hair sweaty and plastered to his forehead. Eyes squeezed tightly closed. If Billy were to get closer, he thinks he’d be able to see tears on Steve's cheeks. On his pretty fucking eyelashes, too.

The satisfaction comes in waves.

So does the shame, the guilt, the fear.

\--

Billy wakes up on the floor of Steve’s bedroom, sprawled out on his back, arm half asleep from where it was folded behind his head.

The lights are on, _always_ on, but the window is wide open.

That doesn’t seem very smart.

Then again, it wasn’t very smart to invite Billy here, or to let him sleep on the floor while Steve passed out in the bed.

Not that it was smart for Billy to stay here, either.

It doesn’t look like Steve was asleep for very long, given that it’s still dark out.

Billy pushes himself up, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. The radio clock next to Steve’s bed reads a little after three AM, its red numbers staring out into the room, flickering a bit. The bed is empty, sheets pushed all the way down to the foot of the bed, like Steve kicked them there, like he tossed and turned until he couldn’t take it any longer and abandoned the pursuit of sleep for something better.

For a moment, Billy debates crawling into the bed, debates folding himself up in the sheets. If he threw the blankets over his head, all he’d be able to smell would be the earthy, rich scent of Steve. Sleeplessness and fear. When Billy stands, when he runs his hands over the sheets, he finds that they’re already cold.

A pity. There’s something appealing about the idea of folding himself into the warmth Steve left, of stealing it from him like he steals so many other things.

He finds Steve on the roof after squeezing himself through the open window.

“Want a cigarette?” Steve asks.

People do that, right? They smoke after sex.

Not that they had sex.

Billy’s a little fucked up, still, and a little hungover, too. People also smoke when they’re drunk, or when they’re hungover. It’s not giving into anything, not giving up, admitting defeat.

He’ll probably feel worse about the whole thing in the light of day. But now -- nothing really feels _real_. Like it’s all some sort of fucked up fever dream.

“Sure,” Billy says.

Together, they go through a pack before dawn, sitting in silence. Steve’s eyes stay stuck on the woods behind his house.

Billy’s wander. To the woods, to the stars, to the bruises on his hands --

\-- and then always, _always_ , back to Steve.

\--

It shouldn't keep happening. But it does.

Whenever Billy’s not partying, whenever Steve’s not stalking the woods at night like some _serial killer_ , whenever they’re both not busy -- which is all _too often_ \-- they crash together.

Sometimes fighting, sometimes -- well. Sometimes, _not_.

Some nights, Billy doesn’t even _remember_. Too messed up, too dizzy with this shit in his head.

He wakes up on Steve’s floor, wakes up by Steve’s pool, wakes up in the back of the Camaro. Sometimes, afterward, he manages to get himself as far away from Steve as possible. Other times, he wakes up too close to commit to memory.

Billy doesn’t _want_ to remember the warmth of waking up next to someone in bed. Doesn’t _want_ to _know_ the way Steve sleeps, one arm over his face, like he’s trying to black out the world, even if it’s only for a couple hours at a time.

He doesn’t want to know. But, by now, at this point in his life, Billy’s practiced in not getting what he wants.

Not ever.

Not _really_.

\--

August drags and _drags_.

The end of the summer feels miles away.

\--

Jonathan packs a goddamn _punch_.

Sure, Steve always gives as good as he gets, but there’s something inherently _vicious_ in the way Byers decks Billy in the face. Something behind the action that says Billy _deserves_ it. And that’s an all too familiar feeling, the art of taking a beating like it’s penance.

It’s way worse than the last time Jonathan punched him.

_Our Father_ , Billy thinks when the third punch hits him in the jaw.

_Who art in heaven --_ when Billy spits blood onto the ground, when it falls into the gravel dust of the Byers’ driveway, like a flashback. A skipped beat.

_Hallowed --_ when Billy gets Jonathan in the gut, when he knocks the breath right out of him -- _be thy name._

Billy’s back hits the ground at _forgive us our tresspasses_ , and he sees stars, blinking up into the big blue sky at _as we forgive those_ , as Jonathan stands over him with red teeth.

It’s like looking in a funhouse mirror. One where he’s taller, where he’s skinnier, where he punches harder. One where he’s got something to fight for, with ire and righteousness behind his fists.

Blood catches in the back of Billy’s throat, because that just _tickles_. Because all that’s _hilarious_.

So he laughs, dizzy with it.

“You’re dirt, Hargrove,” Jonathan says.

_As we -- as we -- as we forgive those who trespass against us --_ again and again, stuck on repeat, like a record broken and skipping in his head.

Briefly, Billy thinks of forgiving himself for all of his sins like no god ever would.

And that’s laughable, too.

He looks up at Jonathan and sees himself, sees someone at the end of their rope, someone vicious, someone unforgivable.

“Stay away from Steve,” Jonathan says. “I warned you. I _warned_ you. You’re going to _kill_ him.”

Like _Billy_ has ever been the problem. Jesus, don’t these people _listen_?

Billy bares his teeth at Jonathan. Even caught on his back and down for the count, Billy’s vicious, dangerous. He’s always got _bite_.

“Not if he kills me first,” Billy says.

\--

Neil doesn’t like that Billy keeps getting into fights.

Billy thinks it’s that his father doesn’t like knowing that Billy’s bruises come from somewhere other than his own fists.

At least that’s a familiar feeling. Billy can _relate_ to that.

He knows it all too well.

But -- Steve doesn’t react like Billy would. Doesn’t give Billy _more_ bruises just because the ones Billy’s got aren’t recognizable from _his_ own fists. Instead, when Billy shows up at Steve’s big, empty house at two in the morning looking for _another_ fight, Steve just frowns and hands him a pack of frozen peas and a generous glass of what is probably very expensive whiskey.

Billy doesn’t know what to _do_ with that.

He can’t even snarl, his face hurts too bad for his lip to curl.

“Your psycho _boyfriend_ ,” Billy says, when Steve asks who did this to him. It’s only half a lie.

Billy _tries_ to catch a shred of jealousy in Steve’s gaze, but he can’t find _any_ , and that’s worse, somehow: Billy _wants_ Steve to be jealous of someone else’s fists on him.

He also wants to not want that, too. Desperately.

He aches with it.

He swallows. His throat’s gone all tight, all painful in the way it throbs.

“Billy,” Steve’s hands are too gentle when they push the hair back from Billy’s forehead. When they pull a cool, damp washcloth over Billy’s face after sitting him down in a kitchen chair.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Billy says, because he doesn’t know what Steve is gonna do, but he’s gonna do _something_ stupid. Because Steve is the dumbest person Billy’s ever met and it’s only a matter of time before he ruins everything by doing something monumentally idiotic.

More than he already has, anyway.

Because Billy’s _all kinds_ of messed up, now. He can barely think, can barely function. He’s a _wreck_. And it’s all Steve Harrington’s fault that Billy feels like a thread that’s been pulled too loose.

Steve wobbles on his feet a little, shifting forward, and then back. Like he can’t decide what he wants to do. Like he’s drunk. And honestly -- he probably _is_.

He’s always _something_ , these days.

It’s a miracle Steve’s even here. Usually, he’s gone at night, stalking around in the woods with his bat. But then again, more and more often, he seems like he’s just waiting around for Billy to fuck him up. Like whatever’s in the woods doesn’t matter anymore. Like Billy’s got more teeth than his nightmares.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, like he _asked_ Jonathan to punch Billy’s face in. Like he _asked_ Neil to remind Billy that he’s trash with his fists. Like he did this _himself_.

And maybe he did.

“Shut _up_ ,” Billy says, taste of blood and bile in his mouth.

Steve slides onto Billy’s lap, sitting on his knees, long legs on either side of Billy’s hips. Steve gets his hands in Billy’s hair, fingers so _soft_ as they card through the strands. Billy wants to _vomit_. Thinks he might.

“Stop it,” Billy says, fear wringing out his heart like a wet dishcloth.

Steve’s hands are so gentle when they trace over Billy’s cheeks, touch so light as he traces the bruises.

Steve’s eyes are so big, so brown, so goddamn _pretty_. They’re full of concern, dripping with empathy in a way that makes Billy’s fingers itch to shove him off, back, hard enough that Steve could smack his head against the opposite wall.

But Billy’s already given Steve a head injury once. He knows how that ends. He knows how all of it ends.

Except this.

This thing, with Steve so gentle in his lap, hands so soft against Billy’s bruises.

“ _Stop_ ,” Billy says, his voice breaking brittle in his mouth, each piece of it a jagged terror.

He’s so _scared,_ heart promising to claw its way straight up his throat, taking all of his intestines and bad intentions with it.

“It’s _okay_ ,” Steve says. Practically cooing, like Billy’s a wild and rabid dog. “You’re okay.”

It’s so far from _okay_ that Billy doesn’t have words for it. _He’s_ so far from okay that he’s got fire and molten coals underneath his feet and he’s still walking down, down, down.

He’s dizzy enough that he thinks he might fall over, right here, right now, each one of Steve’s touches bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Stop,” Billy pleads, his eyes on Steve’s pretty pink lips, stuck on the way they’re curled into a concerned frown. “Stop,” he says again, a near-silent plea, as Steve leans forward and does exactly the opposite of that.

Those pretty pink lips are softer than Billy every could have imagined as they shut Billy up, as Steve presses forward and _takes_. The way Steve kisses him is achingly gentle, yet absolutely fierce. Unrelenting, even with Billy’s split lip. His fingers cup the back of Billy’s head, supporting him, not letting him go anywhere as Steve licks into his mouth, as Billy pants and chokes back a groan in the back of his throat. It’s too much, too soft, too caring -- and yet Billy can’t rip himself away from it, can’t bear to shove Steve off his lap.

He’s so desperately _hungry_ for this, for a touch that isn’t a fist, that isn’t a jagged bite. It’s almost painful the way the softness works underneath his skin, burning like lye, like Steve’s getting salt in all of his wounds. Like he _knows_ that Billy can’t handle this, can’t process it.

It’s the worst thing Steve has ever done to him. The cruelest.

When Steve pulls back it’s too soon and yet the moment’s stretched for far too long. Lightheaded, Billy can’t focus on anything other than the red of Steve’s lips as Steve runs his tongue over them, smearing spit and blood with the motion.

“You’re bleeding,” Steve says, like he doesn’t _know_ he opened up Billy’s split lip just now. Like he doesn’t know it’s _his fault_.

Billy kisses him this time. He’s rougher, harsher, like he’s trying to make up for the lack, trying to fill in all the gaps. He bites into it until it hurts, tasting iron, bitter and metallic on his tongue. Steve makes a noise in his throat, something like a protest, but something like an encouragement, too.

Taking whatever Billy gives him. Taking more than he deserves.

When Billy pills back, Steve looks wrecked -- pupils blown, blood on his lips, concerned expression heavy in his eyes.

“Billy,” Steve says.

“ _Stop_ ,” Billy warns him.

Steve Harrington does what he likes.

\--

“Get out of my _face_ ,” Billy hears, ears too accustomed to picking up the sound of Harrington’s voice, wherever, whenever.

Billy’s leaning on his car, doing his best to smoke through the rest of his pack while he waits for Max at the arcade. He’s too early -- was too eager to get out of the house and from under Neil’s thumb -- so he’s parked toward the side of the building in the hopes of avoiding any unwanted encounters. With the kids, with Steve, with anyone else who feels like fucking with him.

Unfortunately, that puts him too close to the _back_ of the arcade.

Which is where, apparently, Steve’s found himself some trouble.

Not that it’s hard. These days, Harrington seems to be able to manifest _trouble_ out of thin air, he wants it so bad.

Billy’s not really in the _mood_ for a fight, but he’s a curious guy and the thought of someone else’s bruises sitting pretty on Steve’s face doesn’t sit too well with him still, so he pushes off the Camaro and stalks around to the back of the arcade, expecting to find Steve in the midst of a fight.

He’s not. But he kind of _is_ , too.

Byers and Wheeler have got Harrington backed against the graffitied wall of the place, effectively cornering him better than any punks could -- too soft a touch, too concerned, that Steve’s spooked by it, or something like that.

Not that he looks like he needs anything harder -- he’s already bleeding from the nose, the lip. Looks like someone got him _good_.

And that someone _wasn’t_ Billy.

The thought kinda makes Billy’s blood boil.

Clearly, the look of Steve all bloodied and broken does the same for Byers and Wheeler, but likely for very different reasons.

“Steve,” Nancy says.

Jonathan reaches out, only to be batted away, fast, by Steve’s hand.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Harrington says, teeth bared in a way that makes Billy’s heart sing. He looks _good_ like that, looks like something straight out of Billy’s dreams. Like some fantasy, come straight to life.

Pity _Steve_ doesn’t listen when Billy told him the same thing. Billy didn’t punch him, though, so he did a _shit_ job of enforcing some kinda lesson, there. But.

Jonathan says _something_ , but Steve catches sight of Billy and all bets are lost. He starts forward like a goddamn magnet toward Billy, which means he pushes into Jonathan’s hand, which is stretched out toward Steve’s face. Billy _grins_ as Steve hisses and stumbles back, pressing back up against that wall again.

Unfortunately, that blows Billy’s cover, not allowing him the space to just casually observe what rightfully should be a private moment between friends.

“ _You_ ,” Byers says, twisting and turning on Billy. “What the _fuck_ did you do to him?”

“Not that,” Billy says, walking forward into the face of danger. “That’s messy. He’s much prettier when I’m done with him, isn’t that right, Harrington?”

It’s so much _easier_ to fall into this familiar song and dance than remember all the other moments between the two of them.

“Billy,” Steve says, the noise small and choked in his throat.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Billy says, a little soft, doing his best to ignore Byers and Wheeler as he advances. “Who did this to you? Know it wasn’t me, so who?”

He wants to know so he can go pay them his compliments in person. Give them a real nice _thank you_ with his fists.

_No one_ touches Harrington who isn’t Billy. No one.

“Just some friends down at _Charlie’s_ ,” Steve says.

Billy hums.

“You sure he didn’t do this, Steve?” Jonathan asks.

Steve nods, a little jerky, a little stupid. Eyes still trained on Billy.

“Steve, let’s get you cleaned up,” Nancy says. Like she can just boss him around at that. Steve looks uninterested.

“I’ll take you home,” Billy offers.

Steve stumbles toward him, like Billy’s gravitational pull is just too hard to fight. Like Nancy’s is repelling. Billy licks his lips and tastes the delight in that.

Billy loops an arm around his shoulder and ignores the way Steve winces as he comes flush against Billy’s ribs. Billy doesn’t like it, but it’s already happened and there’s nothing Billy can do about it, now -- other than patch up the damage from someone else’s fists. He likes a clean canvas. Or one of his own devising, anyway.

Nancy scowls. Jonathan does, too. Billy ignores them, ignores the way they shout at Steve’s and Billy’s retreating backs.

Billy drops Max off first. She stays quiet in the car because Billy hands her a ten and tells her to keep her mouth shut, lips zipped, about Steve’s face. About the blood dripping down the side of his head. About the way he’s sitting, favoring his left side.

“I’ll tell Neil you’re out tonight,” she says, as she slides out of the back seat.

Billy can’t even bring himself to snatch his money back from her greedy little mits. She didn’t keep her promise, her side of the bargain -- but Billy never does.

She’s learning.

And she’s covering for him, too. It could be worse.

\--

“It’ll be okay,” Steve says, as Billy’s using a face cloth to wipe at the blood around Steve’s nose. He’s not being very gentle, but _still_ he gets the feeling Steve’s not talking about his face.

“You don’t know when to shut your mouth, do you?” Billy says.

It’s annoying that this happened. That Billy’s fists weren’t enough for Steve.

It’s annoying that Steve went out looking for more, instead of telling Billy he wasn’t doing a good enough job.

When he wrings the washcloth out in the sink, the water is red, red, red.

“It’ll be okay. ‘S all gonna be okay,” Steve says, and his words are slurring a little bit, so Billy slaps at his cheek so he doesn’t fall asleep.

Nothing’s going to be okay, Billy thinks, but he doesn’t know how to tell Steve that. Doesn’t think Steve’s much in a place to be comprehending anything right now.

“You know that, right?” Steve asks him, and suddenly Steve’s cupping Billy’s face, hands cold as they cradle Billy’s cheeks.

All Billy can see are those big, brown eyes. There’s flecks of gold in them, lit up bright and brilliant by the warmth of the kitchen lights. He can’t help but think of those sheets of mica that Billy used to pick up as a child, shiny and flakey and _fake_. The brilliant light just makes the gold shine brighter. The Harrington’s kitchen is sleep and bright, not dingy and pastel pink like the Hargrove’s. Here is where they sit and patch each other up, both already cemented into a strange and familiar pattern in this place.

“You know that everything’s gonna be okay, right?” Steve asks.

Like Billy’s the one who just got his ass beat up at a bar, like _Steve’s_ wringing Billy’s blood down the drain. Like Billy’s the one freaking out.

It’s the sound of a record scratching, harsh and loud -- and then, just: quiet. Nothing. Not even a ringing in his ears, not even a buzz in the wake of it. Suddenly Billy feels like he’s in a dream, seams messily torn apart around him, threads hanging. He hasn’t had anything but nicotine today, but he still feels high, dizzy with the inability to grasp onto his current reality.

Onto the fact that, for whatever reason, Steve is comforting him.

“ _Yeah_ I know that,” Billy says, because he’s fine. Because everything’s fine. “Shut up, pretty boy.”

But Steve doesn’t shut up. He just keeps telling Billy it’s gonna be _fine_ , like maybe if he says it enough times he’ll start believe it.

Like maybe it’ll breathe some truth into the words, like maybe the universe will just yield and give him what he wants.

Because spoiled little Steve Harrington’s used to that, used to demanding from life and receiving his spoils on a silver platter. No dirt under his fingertips or grit between his teeth. Just luck, just privilege. Just sour entitlement.

It makes Billy’s blood boil.

\--

Billy wakes up shrouded in warmth, wrapped in cinnamon dreams. He stretches into it, bare legs sliding against soft sheets. Tangling. Nose burying into the spicy scent that permeates the pillow.

Drifting, for a while.

Until he’s not.

Steve is drooling onto Billy’s stomach, face still shiny in patches from where the blood hasn’t quite yet dried. Billy can see it glistening in the light from Steve’s bedside table light. Because god forbid the guy sleep in the darkness like an actual adult. God forbid he not waste electricity unless he’s high as a kite, having some sort of mental breakdown on his living room floor. It doesn’t happen _often_ , from what Billy’s seen -- but it happens often _enough._

Billy reaches over, none too carefully, and thumbs the light off.

Steve doesn’t stir.

The light from the hall is filtering in through the crack underneath the door.

Billy gets up, letting Steve fall down to the warm spot Billy left on the mattress, and slides himself out of bed. He pads down the hallway, and then the stairs, thumbing off light switches as he goes. Making the rounds of the house until every goddamn light is off.

He could go back to bed, if he wanted.

But he doesn’t want.

He wants a drink, wants to forget about the way he can feel his skin cooling the longer he’s away from the warmth of Steve.

He has a whiskey, and then another. And another. Until he’s warm again, until he’s sitting in the darkness of the Harrington living room, forgetting about just how cold he keeps feeling. It’s a chill that goes down to his bone, and it’s always worse here, in the dead of the night, with Harrington under the same roof.

He drinks until it’s the very early morning, light still hours away from being a reality, until all Billy can hear is the ticking of the clock in the hall and the rustling leaves from the woods out back through a window he’s pried open.

It’s still hot outside, but there’s a chill to the room. An eerie stillness that sits heavy in between his ribs.

Billy thumbs at the sticky patch of drool on his chest. There’s blood caked to him, too, from little cuts Steve opened up while he slept. Real sanitary, Billy thinks. Real fucking cute.

But.

It’ll all wash off in the end.

Before Billy goes home, he’ll shower.

Before Billy leaves for the summer, he’ll wash all this away too.

So.

Steve never sleeps for long, Billy knows.

Soon, he’ll get up. Soon, he’ll open his eyes and find nothingness. Soon, he’ll fall out of bed and into the darkness, knees scraping against the carpet of his floor as he scrambles to get up, hands clumsy and stupid with fear.

Soon, he’ll have nothing left to do but come stumbling downstairs, blind and panicked, right into Billy’s line of sight. Steve’ll have a moment, one horrific and putrid moment, where he’ll realize he’s _not alone_ , where his lizard brain will recognize that he’s not the only one in the room, but he won’t be able to _see_ because it’s dark. He won’t understand. But he’ll know.

It’ll happen soon.

So Billy waits.

\--

Hawkins burns hot as hell during the lifeless, lingering days of August.

No matter how fast Billy drives, windows down and shirt off, he can’t escape the heat of it.

No matter how far he drives, he can’t escape its reach.

\--

It’s dusk.

The light from the day lingers in the lazy way that it always does at the end of the summer. Violet and thick and full of the languid stretch of time. Dreamy. Unreal.

When Steve comes up for air from the pristine water of his pool, he’s smiling, water droplets catching on the aqua lights shining out from under the water.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Steve says.

Billy’s crouched at the edge of the pool. Has been. Just waiting for Steve to surface, for Steve to notice him.

“Hey pretty boy,” Billy grins, tongue trailing over his teeth.

Steve’s face is healing up a little. Looking a little less purple around the edges. Less bloody. Less broken.

When he smiles, it doesn’t _quite_ reach his eyes, but they look brighter than usual. Like the light’s hitting them just right. He’s probably just as high as always, but he seems a little clearer. A little more _there_.

His skin looks softer. Like Billy could reach out and touch without breaking. Like if Billy leaned forward and pressed his thumbs to those mottled bruises, they’d be supple, like a ripe peach. Yielding, but not ruined under his touch. Soft, but not spoiled.

Perfect for sinking his teeth in.

He can practically taste the juice dripping down his lips, his chin, his throat.

He kicks off his shoes and dangles his legs into the water. It isn’t much cooler than the air, but it’s comfortable anyway.

It’s comfortable still, when Steve slips between Billy’s legs, when he gets those long fingers around Billy’s head and eases him down and into a kiss.

It should be less familiar when he works Billy’s lips open and slips his tongue inside, but it’s not.

Like Steve’s bruises, it’s too gentle, too easy. Too soft.

Too _nice_.

But Steve tugs just enough at Billy’s hair and bites just enough at Billy’s lip, that it keeps Billy from pulling back, from losing interest. It’s strange, seeing Steve so mellow, having him at Billy’s mercy like this, having him tame under the fingers Billy eases around Steve’s wrists.

This Steve is _his_.

His to do what he wants with.

And Billy wants so much.

He wants, when Steve groans into his mouth.

He wants, when Steve slips a hand into Billy’s pants and gets his fingers around him.

He wants, when he gasps out into Steve’s mouth, panting and straining and feeling so, so good.

And it feels like a dream when he pulls Steve out of the pool, when he lays him out on the night-cool grass next to the water and crawls on top of him. It can’t be anything _but_ a dream, when Billy leans down and kisses the bruises on Steve’s face, mouth going all sweet from the ripeness of his skin. His tongue slides against Steve’s, lazy and wanting and wet, as Steve arches underneath him. As Billy slides his hand into Steve’s still dripping swim-shorts and feels the heat of him, feels the way he throbs under Billy’s touch.

Greedy for it, Billy drinks down all the sweet little noises Steve makes, devours all the little pieces Steve gives up of himself.

Steve doesn’t flinch like when Billy hits him, but he does shake and shiver. He does make all sorts of delightful little noises, too. Billy can take him apart like this, can rip Harrington into tiny, tiny pieces with just the jerk of his fist, the clench of his teeth against bruised skin. With just a thought.

And Steve doesn’t shout when he comes, when he empties himself hot and sticky over Billy’s fingers, but he does shatter. He chokes, like Billy got him straight in the gut with one brutal punch. Like he tore Steve’s soul straight out from between his ribs.

It’s more of a rush than usual, a more ferocious high than even the best quality coke Steve has ever given him.

It’s addictive, too.

Billy finds that he can’t stop touching Steve, can’t stop pulling his fingers through Steve’s mess, just to see him twitch and squirm underneath Billy. Oversensitive, strung out.

“ _Billy_ ,” Steve begs him, but his fingertips are digging into the meat of Billy’s shoulders. In and in and in, until it feels like Steve’s drawing blood, pulling Billy down, anchoring him there on top of Steve.

Steve whines and whimpers, little things like _stop_ and _please_ and _Billy_ , over and over again, but he doesn’t let go, just keeps pulling Billy down harder each time Billy shifts his weight and pushes up.

There’s heat trapped between them, an inferno of hot sensation as Steve writhes and Billy touches him until he’s hard again, until he’s begging and begging and _begging._ It’s not enough, never enough for Steve, so Billy tries to give him more, tries to bite and nip and tear at Steve’s neck to push him, to give until he’ll _stop_. But Steve’s a black hole, a gravity pit. There’s nothing Billy can give him that he won’t annihilate in moments, nothing he won’t burn through like a wildfire -- voracious and indiscriminate all at once.

Billy _gives_ because Steve won’t stop _taking_.

He gives, because all Billy wants to do is _take_ , too.

It’s a feedback loop, both of them hungry, starving, empty.

But Steve is his to do with what he likes -- Steve has made that, over the last few months, so abundantly clear. So Billy gives what he likes, what he thinks Steve deserves. Which is too much, too soon, too hard. But Steve burns through it hot, gasps out Billy’s name, and drags his nails down Billy’s shoulders until Billy can barely stand the pain.

It’s not enough -- not until Steve pulls back and gets his fists in Billy’s hair, rough and unyielding. Panting and out of breath Steve kisses him. The, kiss, despite Steve’s grip, is gentle. Too gentle, too wet, too tainted with something that tastes like longing. But Billy’s greedy for it, addicted to it, pressing into Steve’s lips like it’s never quite enough. He eats it up like candy.

When they’re done, Billy falls onto his back, hand still sticky, vision going blurry and unfocused toward the stars.

Steve curls into him, right up against his side.

Soft lips press kisses right under Billy’s jaw and careful fingers trace the topography of Billy’s ribs. It’s not cold, but Billy shivers anyway, involuntary, as Steve traces invisible patterns, as Billy simply breathes and tries to focus on the heavens above. Sky so vast and empty, god so infinitely far away.

After a while, Billy gets a hand in Steve’s hair to yank him away -- but once Billy’s fingers tangle into the damp mess of it, Steve makes the sweetest little noise, all pretty and gross and saccharine, the kind of noise that goes straight to Billy’s gut and eats away at him like acid -- and instead, he pulls Steve closer still.

It feels _good_ , having Steve pressed up the length of his body like this. Like he just can’t get Steve close enough, even if he were tucked away inside his ribs. Like the only solution would be to eat him up, devour him whole, bones and blood and all. The desire is so thick, so heavy on his tongue that Billy nearly gags with it, choking on the weight of his own greed. His own inadequacy. His own sin.

Barely able to breathe around all of it.

\--

It hurts, wanting something intangible. Wanting something that doesn’t actually exist.

Because what he wants is --

It’s nothing.

\--

And Billy’s used to biting back his desires. He’s used to burning everything to the ground, used to twisting the ashes of anything that remains into something he can use. Burning and black and broken, just like the inside of him.

Just like everything he deserves.

Just like everything he gets in this world.

\--

Billy is so, so good at burning it all down.

\--

An end of summer party.

Everything drawing to a close.

Steve, all easy and drunk and a little too friendly.

A few seconds ago, Steve’s hands had been searching Billy’s pockets for a lighter. A few seconds ago, Billy had snarled and pushed him back, had gone all mean and hard and vicious in a split second. All because Steve was getting too _comfortable_. All because Billy wanted _more_.

“What -- ?” Steve starts, hands stuck up in a gesture somewhere between defensive and offensive. He’s invariably a little jittery, a little skittish -- but always ready to fight. Billy likes that about him. He also hates it, too. “Did I stutter?” Billy says. He bares his teeth and leans forward, but it’s hardly friendly, getting all up in Steve’s space like that. Harrington looks confused. There’s maybe a little hurt blooming there in those big doe eyes, but the hallway is poorly lit and Billy doesn’t want to see, so he doesn’t. “Well, did I?” Billy asks again, squaring his shoulders like he’s ready to fight, ready to throw a punch. Like the good old days. Like how Steve wanted him to be like, at the beginning of the summer. “What, did you think we were _friends_?” Billy asks, words jagged and sharp in his mouth. He wants to cut his tongue on them, wants them to be pointed enough that they make Steve bleed, too. Billy laughs, cruel and mean. “Aw. Did you think we were something _more_?” Billy watches Steve swallow, watches something go a little pale in his eyes. A little dead. He opens his mouth to talk, to probably say something stupid, but Billy cuts him off before he can. “I thought I _told you_ to stop being such a little bitch.” It’s the perfect thing thing to say. Steve laughs, like he always does. Bitter and mean and a little unhinged. Billy hates the sound. He kind of loves it, too.

\--

The next time he sees Steve, Billy expects his bruises to be barely there.

He’s _excited_ about a blank canvas. A clean start.

It’s the thrill of a new day, a new hour. Something to leave Steve to remember him by, before he goes back to school for the fall.

But when Billy gets back to Steve’s house and finds him nursing a glass of whiskey in the kitchen at eleven in the morning, Steve’s face is black and blue again.

Ripped to shreds.

Beautiful -- but it’s someone _else’s_ work. Again.

Billy hasn’t seen laid a fist on Steve’s face for a little while, now. He had been waiting, waiting. And someone keeps getting there _first_.

And Billy, he _burns_.

It’s red-hot underneath his skin, bright in his eyes, the whole world shining red with the ferocity of it, the injustice.

Steve greets him with his name, all sweet and lazy from his mouth, like he’s already a little drunk despite the hour, before Billy comes in fast. He shoves Steve hard against the pristine granite countertop, mean and quick and sudden. Fingers rough, body unforgiving.

“ _Billy_ ,” Steve bites out as an echo, delighted at the pain.

“Who fucked up your face, pretty boy?” Billy says, jamming Steve back harder and harder still. Shaking him, fingers digging in at the wrists.

“Does it matter?” Steve says, voice a little tight, breath a little shallow.

Like Billy’s giving him something nice, like something he asked for. But Billy’s not _giving_ Steve anything. He’s taking, all for himself, angry and ablaze with it.

“We’re not _friends_ ,” Steve reminds him. Just repeating what Billy told him the other day, Billy knows -- but he likes to think that his words wormed their way inside Steve, likes to think they bruised just like fists, leaving Steve raw and aching inside.

“You come to _me_ ,” Billy growls, teeth close to Steve’s ear, like he’s a wild animal, ready to bite. He feels unhinged, rabid -- hungry for flesh. “When you want that, you come to _me_. I’m the one who does this shit to you.”

His fingers reach up and dig into the bruises on Steve’s face. His lip is split. When Billy’s thumb presses against it, it reopens. It doesn’t take much to push the pad of his thumb through the blood, smearing a mess over Steve’s upper lip, leaving him red and raw.

Billy’s not expecting Steve to laugh, loud and delighted. Pulling away from the pain, pulling away from Billy.

“Holy shit,” Steve says, and he sounds high, high on some sudden revelation he’s had, some sudden stroke of addictive truth. “Jesus, are you _jealous_ , Billy?”

And he’s not.

He’s _not_.

He’s annoyed and angry and frustrated as hell -- but he’s not _jealous_.

Steve’s laugh gets louder and his face goes all _sharp_ , twisted up all mean. Billy’s fingers dig in and _in_ to to those purple bruises, but Steve doesn’t _stop,_ doesn’t get any quieter.

“That’s _pathetic_ ,” Steve says, still cackling, smile wide and thrilled. “Did you think I needed you? Did you think you were the only one who could give me what I wanted?”

Billy wants to punch him until his head snaps back. Until he hears teeth clatter against the ground in broken pieces. Until his fists are bloody and as broken as Steve’s face.

But that’s what Steve _wants_ , Billy thinks.

It’s what Steve wants and it’s what Billy’s been giving him and it’s what Steve’s been taking and taking and _taking_ this entire time.

He’s been pulling Billy down with him, bruising him up, drowning him in all this.

And now Billy’s so deep he can barely breathe.

“God, you really _are_ jealous,” Steve says at Billy’s silence, and Billy shoves him against the counter before pushing back, stumbling a few steps away. Putting some space between the two of them. “The great Billy Hargrove, jealous some other man gave me what I _needed_.”

That _does_ earn Steve a punch. The force of it has Billy breathing hard and Steve falling back against the counter.

It’s far from satisfying, though. It doesn’t come with the rush of his usual punches, the pleasure. It just _hurts_.

“Fuck you, fag,” Billy spits.

Rage has him shaking.

Shame has him nauseous.

It eats at him, burns at the inside of his ribcage, at the marrow of his bones.

“Yeah, _that’s_ not going to happen,” Steve says, like it was an offer. Like _that_ was ever on the table.

Billy watches Steve lick his lips, blood staining his teeth red.

“You’re disgusting,” Billy says. “You’re fucked up,” he says.

“Yeah,” Steve says with a laugh, like nothing Billy says can faze him now. Like maybe nothing ever did at all. “But at least I’m not in denial about it. And at least I’m not _jealous_.”

Steve spits, right onto the floor of his own kitchen. It lands crimson and sticky at his feet. His lips are red and Billy wants to reach out and touch them. Wants to taste the blood on his own tongue. He wants to gag, wants to summon up the shame he should feel about _that_ , but he can’t find it inside him. He can’t bring himself to be disgusted by something so familiar, anymore.

Billy aches and it _hurts_.

When he reaches out, his fist only catches on cold air.

Steve laughs and it echoes. Loud and sharp and mean between Billy's ears. Dizzying. Terrifying.

A nightmare.

“Go home, Billy.”

Billy can’t breathe, and he doesn’t know how to wake up.

\--

Summer in Hawkins lingers and stretches and rots on the vine until it suddenly doesn’t.

Time wears thin, hours passing in a lifeless blur, until Billy’s packing his car up again.

Until Hawkins is just a speck in his rearview, disappearing behind him like ashes in the wind.

Billy is washed clean of it, now. He’s done his time, said his penance. He’s given and taken and given some more.

If only he could wash away the taste of blood in his mouth, the sweet ripeness of Steve’s skin. If only he could forget the heat of the summer that exists in his dreams, the heat that burns him up inside.

If only he could gouge it all straight out of his bones.

\--

But Hawkins lingers and lingers in him, putrid and sticky, like a scab that just won’t close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you actually stuck around for the end of this: hey thanks!
> 
> i had 3/4 of this written for _months_ , but i had so much trouble (clearly) finishing it.
> 
> anyway, i hope you -- enjoyed? happy almost christmas.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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